Pip Pe diett bah rk AWA hy eka No iseas Ye 


deg dy yp oa icra at : Bit , , RIES UCe In se a 
oye sea hg Weg 1 sie jr oh ‘peipes syria lhe Hf) 99 
vied ed adn dP ore ei “esi iM elbkisbbs.abysee aes et 
ae, ne ses Tite ’ days neh 2 Het i "4 rhe Penacy Nara. gAaraigyymte p 
PUP raed bp 1 fst erane aie ” wae i 
He em ganQbns HF tg td sipots senate wh bs paitheug’ y nied Modded, is ans ne perop yi 
Radutin PED oer LP iota by nie ore ees iit ay hattts 
ie geeanrayeah: ool Vrse ‘ fh ; Nak ares SAS Pi 
by "oy we ate ‘ Mautietl 
ayer dom ns saad este 


Y de lpi adhiany) at on 
coey , Towinde si simeodads re een erie ab oan puneegr dng 
Oe i a ee cee ee, Bb eee 
a A Men ee etd 
tote et 4.4 WA hap heir all eg + 
no otf tlio mt Nee Oe Ont 
* 6, 5 siecgs Beware ss vgeahoge $s 
TO Pe ha etherk yA 
5 Ah 1Orig Gaels Att ier de 


fini mi aueget Dra designs 
Aidt Sip be Dite hy ‘se tess ste 
ee pues gr oti sh hid 
meet rs ni vid Sidi 


ary 
pie 5 oe Lediy hehe 
‘ seaiesinaitgine 
' er diujanevawee 


We et iawn "t 
wadialy 


, Pie siatatet sad efy 


ree av) ob Ai od ead nt tbat eae oe sista si - Mocibperdineiniin 

Hed? v0 owtiavany tit Reet wal Sberinet th ae? > gee: mio saa aH may MSP a pesy sige 
err re dec eiie yet ep Greet ae ent es G bavberd aie str hemal et) Piers sei a eh 44 
ree th eri one ivekh nil cae aadnnie ss Dies conti Miccrenteenst ey Wah 
ee wre ps eis resemads, Ha niynat | rovemstnn at 4 ss) 14 fiat f i 


4 ehewe iors if Merton 
¥ 996 ee 
oo hatt anh pees 


“ifadinyod ® a) Dal ipa 
way aa LeU eeLa He 


i be 

: a. i ee his raged 
ee ee ii ere 
aa rs 2 yn werent etd a Deh piling sept 


aac MH aneiet 
pheopenn Dy ih agape ed Ch cet ron 
panto 


pated ay thal hey Stine ieee nett ycisiaws. ‘ 


be (yy obit Pi ab hy 
f sd erst ee 


vat r cd: 

Or Boer | Neier ; inka sw a 

eins ae aha? Mopany red peti sce eoptes ni es pe 
ED pase hppa dt dns Supreme ae “) ioe ii 

hoe sib arienge 


oF APES A eh eaadaiee 
bette bai pred shhh Daisy 


Reet sane | Mcrae seater Macc te mata 
yrdad aa at ee Meee! + H at ye nih) 2199 0 rae * ar ope if i 
seteretctryentgen tte eee i aoa "y oe 
a ni Higed a 2. oh canned 2 Rt Pde 
fio ee Woe eye EPs had Py MiMi nies te bns wie * 4 Sra sepa patel 
leita ja : it iti te tie 


tgs eh a) belay 
[ert ot aks ty eg old -emiten tl bay ipod 
er yeecury 


f ie aeeeaast s bie Metecceri nb adesagsa 
i@e jap ee ve Aha yan pa PERK ZY | ¢. 
veg hrideGe I eastohetereiueded secon: rire re 
(SOAP ATI a ai steer ei 
‘Pa ta 8 athe 3 aap ic nspaitait ais 9 erste ofan) vita ¥ 
i bet Isaalienis:poskagen yeic ibd aNMeN NS aR eARM pp : ; 
Wd SARE Coed aed he Rt AEE aN pty fA Haat spt si arty 
thy Deas CAR ae tl Sy eich miahivh sey thea hips ibe 
bpamseatbertmdu uel Reno AbueUiE br easivpu larson pact han pearl ctor eda 6 ts = BA ith eigen 
ESP Bee Leer hops eee A tigeriye head! NO) | ceernceon te = eGaliaieh 
ms steht ep egne Rey regi oH 92 eta PY ein N93 
sinh aidt domme 4p Teasions in Hausitheysieat og yi 


oak oR AN CY bye 24) 4) ee lt) 8 pa cs 
Padcarsate hier iiow ii) 
J sissies ee wy satan bash Loh says mia 


¥ un ah ied ee dads 
«ies toe 20 Hee ieee ve reben ears 
snl gtd titeliimeadaiodraD See a he ts ne ere 
hehe oes omtt om aendat) pan agiestyit al) aa M=iteu 
anh restate Baath Fen) £ Bony Bi pth Ae eh id Mc op 
savisivos! Lag eohe dehy iSite Gb iment ntd Te add oe 

ee ath ak He ahha a wit ee he 
beng et ebb lead yt tbe, 
PeAAS ALE Bi she haa hbiomc ud lek 
ford e letib see Wersht dic 
prt) wale 


1 ean apes att safe 
han et am ; 

hl bu * i 

ge reece iy 

aan ie oayiag + cae 

awaits 
nati ahi aes ett eee bette 
iba 


ssh petted 


Haegedih 47 we ai este Cpaaie 
Pasties Le orraaie. 


sede, 14 is 
Jat 


4g hebage Leen 
Pid bint oddgetys 


ons feed e58it 


wy ete aM eeg, 
ces abst ay et A 


ete eee i 
HP 4ediet eae 


bath isi 


fi Lay 
Piabafehi sh wa pu to, ei brit 


ed panty peed Gath Med ag) enip the Re! (oa be thai iad 095 4 98 tt 88 waite ane da tye rine jonas $70 gt dvaplis 
3 AAU GT: sirianltgetl 2oh-e leat 1/4 Tomi ats aot Nb ty hee Le ua eel aalh4e esate 4 ea 49 
: 1) oh poomshagapt dy fe ha sabe olan os atic ihe nt sy 1a att geek aah Y irish 
“ i aah ips ead Ed LM aHt dnd Salsa rensse retones : i “iho alae 
4 i Soho sjpoibath 4) see att iatbeltrdeter, aural od 4 @ ‘acer + ei ieebegas da elias De seate ° Heh Bane A a 4) hal 
ya itr rv my du eae ek um eM gees) ah saprene fl ide Saietiak 5 pte $ 4 


Beary Boner viaitmare dslbess aguas aaa deh cies ib \ tartare {ols esi! 


Fed sey 71 Sig el onat stip ements v2dt den $2 4mty eA Mh 99 iy 
bag tivedeierl-t3pched meefter hin ar ad aides gaan toy bis ¢ 


Ag tial etter ree ai ols 9d otf we fed OG en t4 etd bey eH feabh ael cawrhegs ri aati i] one ghd 4) padi tiged haisesai 
; iedallive tial ee PP ats dba Cert a) a ee I nen hese 
onthe i swags ibei-(haih es Bopion A) tye ha eth et Pea he Voth HAUS Ae A eri dat FY ' Pe Rta 
rrr Geran.) ir ee os Care arenes tired seer eur t ries a ai ua nt tS aha ee iit ibaih) 
“y a tenatite Pose’ seanh siete eon gyn ord ahs Wea bape 0) DUGG Hn ae vi lea viata) 
vitute sige nr $ Laeger me 2  oort s em sg ere th isso Maaiauans}s 
Meith: rons Fopaibaah sty vt ap astanietie tobe N ab talaistal) ly a6 MOE UG fia CU chit TOMER Hag cla party LAN seoeaneads i 
a4 vheeensete® . ars bet o4he)5:9 49.1043 Hagen titer att Ni ae thats 


& le oe OEE Ae 
10 fo (Gatha Oats 
AE bed ogee 
qe hetint vine? 


‘ : ne in 
oe aor ea tyne ra re 


hai bqeas 
Mets vb) Stat faites i 9 Ay roe bribe ate he 
bane 
oye 


Py Cae mehen Gesu satin 
Eide oe ibe bee eae) bebop ind aes Us {Mave 6592525 04) eh pS Ahad) 
Hedy Lay Lape. peepee Ab bathe se " 

rye rebary Peer rat bend La 
Reece PU Pe re Gums tl eine og edie 


yh si ye Ih hehe) oct pane 


hater alte’ erat a rip ie, 

Ey fee, yi MARAE es enrpsareh andy gay. paste 
ba DA een b ee Mi unite an ; 

eA Vetranrare pitta fe My rererda iC 
r ay aide * ve i 

si be gamit ip reat iy i tte man 


esoronenl ind 


§ 
eo 


bi pbs efit) Nak Lip eter Pree s Jag iagere 
2} be¥e ™- 


ie Gail f ecard PATE 


Ob ely otha ekdd Abo) phe 
repel nay aa Gon ester 


Ap tistianthe de anaw 
ete Cen tet. ogee irathlha 

Mh ey eiyent it 
a ft atprii ¢ 


Np Ni tidy 
Cire yr uavakt 
r eer rer rrroney Mmere nt ar ‘| ai per! HT TESRA 
ih aH ath sea} beslpll iN aif shew ait lie fy creat tie Le 
6 by Miia eK eo cule ie ee i taiji 
Li eidata yal soapetae Weide 
preone i tail " sesso didn = ak ofA betas lea ME eed “ \ 
Seg ae atbereied f a 2 a es Fold platens haga re : vei pio iia net patted ign afb 
age aiid am RAN nemo baw dae sig act 2h 4 eet Theses a 1g) Shae A) vip iach steady the vet aye tian bv i 
P cohontt cdl path MLE Ee oe Gd Pil yi bated arene ey 7 ip haiti ry 
Paw ped S84 oa eh Se Ragin ge Vi adpadea He yet iad Maaaid hess 
hha dee@itaieyis vibe Wimrebtbas4 4) f} HSS sth Ah 
$2 G91b A) ipods S Ratt 40) Peppered bt Gat Cat gh DS anh men ae z sbapeierere 
; POMEL Ray dbo Blinc a vat ly lta ab ah Hide as F PTR, OED a, 
sad ed ' ‘ pe MB ye Sehr ict toler be ty ee te mIN8 oe i a sili , 
$501 <flaans ne 1 rr ajar Th ey HA A (ahah er faiwnitreget) ® n he + fi + i, 
sa bM ios oAentaen ip F c | sthaagaene Hh 24h yairon-tin| seh Dt eae ae et sats Sopot ais coi Haida qe aha 
* , afta f2lhs doped le ids dnt bd J 


elanitande cain doy jp aitedlaspaitoalr trai Os iat 
neo Poersmororontewrnimsaeteypysbed une sho pane 
nah: rhvaton ahh ths 

jah gadaibsite! agahe esol} iid apalicawa 2 ihait1 (dah Dwi deans tiaty netey 
fe a 

Esau APaa 7 Ph id 4 
va a sear beei 8 Mah stoeye 
aay 


4 Tees) RAD : ; verbs 

, piste bay sve pu My ace fe aie : 

ALAM, oe mages pai abe eared ray 
ae Figs 3 odie 


By ahs Neh of [aed 
Stach AE ELEGY os 


Syren, ret eat eet 
4 En eth booger Had ve 


whi peat Oda di geee 
21) AR A OE AS he tall gig 
vee Ue ee ete ee ee ee re en ie 


Seals qa ha ry cay 
edinesraiey pene AR TOS NL 3 
a tse 


wt 
Sor biel orbs ott 
ies todd erbaliet 4s ged 
Sta ijary a HE hp ay dy 0 yea Fis 
ati Lael lbs eg eew peek oltre 

, saa) ails arr {ai 


A 


ee SS 


s: Apu pce fies thei ey 
Ha OE Naat tee Tenis rues 
Seif thawte hs 036 4 tea 
> meabphawlin ed Scorer 
sid 


Lan spduonilt tall 
silat cnoba: uererasat fietion Mpihriaaigats atts 
EEN Me Fre damon yerye Rhee wired en ene Nee fe 
Bk a a iemhan A Dat) A ani inedad= isiancise5 Zalbawveievtecre Osi 


wen 
orien 


r senoe Pbwss 


; eter sehen sia nyo in MAU ef ais juin yaa 4 nae 
ete ssea dire dat aap wth rica ad ani aS dit dae Reriethy | Hak athe Fy rh eth igs Sat ris 
obmiheee be Sh gain ah domed enti gks blh eh bedede faired magn | fal Payee seat ikeed 4s oi} ot) sibaf) ity ae tt iatndh is 
a ait Pot betlis poeg LA N22) ad ber al asH aged hai rey: & ‘ ee nhored aon 13 diton nieces on 
Led Femlle Bagh td Aw ph edh oo Ciel sh he a ria HE beded ana | 2 ay 
ia sxbopotetads geiag east Bd wheiltite 13 bade a aie ine hy art ve MED aan ny 
reps mrernces Per i sits 2¥ 8 Sf 


Or) Rel dedi sila beuhs p> 
ee ee ioon dene 
HotdnGe 4 Aabigsr> dmg port it 


i 
ab a4 ay een, ag 
VEAL Heri ayy past Ma heel he iehaee pee + 


. yryscegrne ee ue poet ees hd aR ativan 
igen datasaptaclisy on uatanrai ast attyet oe 
vi) vipa sain) 3 i gibs Sa Fe unbetiee it 2 AAO BA 
rast Hit main ver Meat vid ibe at : ight 
} je ba geuen i thon A fy ine srubolnie Invent i at 
Ji sche ted ieee ds aed eu pele ’ 
ii aay ai Hd, bata: ur +t paralthet bes ; 
4:14 b Thal Me aed 0h) cast fed ey aged an tepals Sept 
ho 24% jeg eas SH Mand Yenig-a eh ayamide noah d pal Toaiy pee op hears 
ay es aes gti i Talal. 3 Gipeiratbadd Means 


tdehays fi 90 
hie Dads tsps 
412 MIE Maint rerins 
en biel eget ates pena 
i seaatinam wa paige va 
satatin ibis 888 Ai 
: Per Lene arkety Maly 
aH Waite ese we 


oe maton nines Stet 
Lan. i heibada eric yh aly 


ARO Eat ieayet hae ta sia if 

fobapaieedMt0F pov bah Lie 

tamede Catt de gayataetts 
Lt hbMt rh 


sae Mi Ps 
Hiab Ser aid shat SER sh! 3 i" 
Sak? ae 


ice fane 4 rina 


Aieiiine 


a Sakbanh sett Se ae aii cid semaadanaboanadaes 
Anis spose ebtibeth ahs 24) aera aarp itl OTP be bE nity ad aed 9ipat (ois ih se espns ished 4 8 Uhh sayin ih dod 
Goria hs rstgnly we Rethe Nedbaaarpal AVA HOG ah1E 4 FG Hpk 9H sibel idergeesstne Veil idibetairata saenalnives ai ani swadtaruelyenromie 
ashe sidrtedepibe faa ui ye we diaganedaiiansieyededs pribensoatoctssiniyallaseet ve oslo awe 7 palpys ieeatten she iS 
4 oltaeat taanbians ols Mant) of sda feiled f x Govatta ted fat itt» Totals yites Sb peite le ge ae ete ite hs rerun veh Laren sb 
4 Pe a ae ) Abas fererryer titer | Mepaie Lady a4 46h CP IRE Ed ort " 


ASA rg by 
eo Webs Pave. the bathe 
SY wind Layee iabalyns 

Keenan teed 


bende chy nied tb B48 nd os AAR Hiat ga ipederiyingh ip tani Lit OM 9 
i v4 ain alt tieeegad Vel F rete aay 
feuroda ace se stor Peat hey ip Gad 

yeyeny sagechind 


Anigei > ae site! 


a} ule ff 


“4 pahedit Heads (pte Lsbapaitetaihids 4 ‘ wae ee) petaen ih Deueein) 
jee od 4 Bele math " \ r ty Sid ed AL a 
ly stat fall Gob Sea Math beater sibs , ie wah ee jie Se le: panaspaje tas x8 3) Hi) ‘9 
Tr To tr Se RAG dota psd 2 had bemainede. oF ig Batata fing a adtalt Poe We eae bt si Abed . siti : 
4: had Nee gent ie bd be ed tty blot thy ee gad eyes a polboltatros 


eye e® ) hebuB as hats ation. boned 
be pean ae ho (h be Ramee ete FeP eis eokeseadt red. Vesbtlias + bon ne 
Prk te dahe Ah oiRoth oot HB el of HMedbs he SPeanea') fh 08 NEM ALeds de trl anna manees ¥ ctor 

$ Deidsivelins 2 oe Padre ts ng sisi eat sae mae paar eerirenereronenrr titre crrny fr Pemepene yay ater f oie 
Pe eee tt eae pr eee ee 2, Werrerree eit co sep et tayeren ey Pe eayy t y sid eide, 


é me 
Ween ibn ty Ly Rath vita ol4 etebbsbarifall QB abd hor ld Ad Dob pteip eal Ma iee jane 
a) rePte inetewnetigniaindaotaddey: pried peseah4 a ‘gia sonia fa itera 
o4 ihe pm pare iae! 


reer citiehte eee hatabeie tad ctatata ta sedge isaed 


enh flere 


eth He deh ji acved ott 
OE AME rd A 


b+ eid woetelh Orbe te beds 


EFT OO i Bi Rie at esi DO a IS EI ata 


at eee ees fii es lage eae a = 7 ss * vn 
2 SERS ye) TRH 5 Nae YR ER ay PRI RN i San R per eng gl ESP ARAGON Te 


Return this book on or before the 
Latest Date stamped below. 


University of Illinois Library 


ck rte ke 
; 1533 


L161—H41 


ee i ‘ 


, 
Cah, 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 
PART THREE 


THE 
GUERMANTES WAY 


““When to the sessions of sweet silent thought 
I summon up remembrance of things past . 


This volume is a translation of “Le Coté de Guermantes I,” 
the third part of Marcel Proust’s continuous novel “A la 
Recherche du Temps Perdu’’ (Remembrance of Things 
Past). The parts already published are: 


I. Du Coté de Chez Swann . . . « (1913) 


Il. A l’Ombre des Jeunes Filles en Fleurs 
(awarded the Prix Goncourt in 


1919) ne (1918) 

III. Le Cété de GuermantessI . . . . (1920) 
IV. Le Coté de Guermantes IIT . . . (1927 

Sodome et Gomorrhe I ; bie) 

V. Sodome et Gomorrhe II. . . « « ,(1922) 

Via Praonnieres ois) «se ese azay 


The remaining parts will be entitled: 


Vil. Albertine Disparue 
VUI. Le Temps Retrouvé 


“Du Coté de Chez Swann” has been published in England 
and America aj) SWANN’S WAY, “A lOmbre des 
Jeunes Filles en Fleurs” as WITHIN A BUDDING 


GROVE. 


THE 
GUERMANTES WAY 


by 
MARCEL PROUST 


Translated by 
C. K. SCOTT MONCRIEFF 


Volume One 


LA 
NY 


NEW YORK 
THOMAS SELTZER 
O25 


Copyright, 1925, by 
THOMAS SELTZER, Inc. 


All rights reserved 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 


Atk, —7 ow. COM, TL OQ 


tg 0 i Sali eg 
Oc, Es 


v.|  auTHOR’s DEDICATION 


A 
LEON DAUDET 


A l’auteur 


du VOYAGE DE SHAKESPEARE, 
du PARTAGE DE L’ENFANT, 
de V’ASTRE NOIR, 
de FANTOMES ET VIVANTS, 
du MONDE DES IMAGES, 
de tant de chefs-d’oeuvre, 


A Vincomparable ami 
en temoignage 
de reconnaissance et d’admiration 
M. P. 


vid 
ie 


ihe 
\ en } 


i 
ii ‘ 
rh x 
a an 
7. ‘ . - 
Wes J hel n 
a ¥ ; 
: cx, e 
i ae! 
iat 
f fe . 
AL om 


pa 
ai 


TRANSLATOR’S DEDICATION 


To 
Mrs. H 
on her Birthday 


Oberon, in the ATHENIAN glade, 

Weduced by deft Tirantia’s power, 

Invented arts for NaTuRE’s aid 

And from a snowflake shaped a flower: 

‘Narurg, to outdo him, wrought of human clay 
A fairy blossom, which we acclaim to-day. 


Hess, to high Otympus borne, 
Undoomed to death, by age uncurst, 
XERES and Porto, night and morn, 
| Let flow, to appease celestial thirst: 
Ew’n so, untouched by years that envious pass 
YouTu greets the guests to-night and fills the glass. 


|Hesione, for monstrous feast, 
Against a rock was chained, to die; 
“Young HERCLES came, he slew the beast, 
Nor won the award Bi chivalry: 
E.S. P. H., whom monsters hold in awe, 
Shield Pee from injury, and enforce the law! 


Cc. K. S. M. 


Ae lL 


i 
s 
\e 


’ ti am : oc ee Meg 
Rata mS id ne Ted eit 2 
‘ate ” 


er 
waa if ng oF 


Senation 


7 


. ¢ RY ae iy sa) 
Wane shee Me 2 Wise dial ¥ 


14 Vehapety Le Ne ae 
, - miskat, 1 Se) | Ree: 
ER fig 825 sore ra 


Woe Vea ae 
ces! ee shy % we oe 
+ 


hols ee 
i ce SOnenane 
ae The, aE han 


ey > - A 
rake bil . 


CONTENTS 


| 
| 
i 
| 
| 
| 
| 


‘chapter One Volume I page 


| Names of People: The Duchess de Guermantes—Saint-Loup at 
| Donciéves—Mme. de Villeparisis at home—My grandmother’s 
iMness. 


Chapter One (continued) Volume II page 


My grandmother’s illness (continued )—Bergotte’s illness—The 
| Duke and the Doctor—Decline and death of my grandmother. 
Chapter Two Volume II page 
| A visit from Albertine—Prospeét of rich brides for certain friends 
| of Saint-Loup—The wit of the Guermantes, as displayed before 

the Princess de Parme—A strange visit to M. de Charlus—His 

charatier puzzles me more and more—The red shoes of the Duchess. 


The French text of Le Cété de Guermantes being extremely 
inaccurate, every care has been taken to correct it in the process 
of translation. In three places in this volume the sequence of 
paragraphs has been altered, as the reader may discover by 
comparing the French and English texts. 


49 


Bet iho 


es 


at 


in 


sata: re Leics, a 1% 


ae bk ely aN a, 
nn) 


We 5 bi “ shang 


be ey Rae Ee A 
4 , , , Ms 


ee A 


THE 
GUERMANTES WAY 


CHAPTER ‘ONE 


HE twittering of the birds at daybreak sounded 
ie to Frangoise. Every word uttered by the 
| maids upstairs made her jump; disturbed by all their 
running about, she kept asking herself what they could 
be doing. In other words, we had moved. Certainly the 
servants had made no less noise in the attics of our old 
home; but she knew them, she had made of their comings 
and goings familiar events. Now she faced even silence 
with a strained attention. And as our new neighbourhood 
appeared to be as quiet as the boulevard on to which we 
had hitherto looked had been noisy, the song (distinct at 
a distance, when it was still quite faint, like an orchestral 
motif) of a passer-by brought tears to the eyes of a 
Frangoise in exile. And so if I had been tempted to laugh 
vat her in her misery at having to leave a house in which 
‘she was “so well respected on all sides” and had packed 
her trunks with tears, according to the Use of Combray, 
\declaring superior to all possible houses that which had 
(been ours, on the other hand I, who found it as hard to 
assimilate new as I found it easy to abandon old condi- 
tions, I felt myself drawn towards our old servant when I 
‘saw that this installation of herself in a building where she 
had not received from the hall-porter, who did not yet 
‘Know us, the marks of respect necessary to her moral 
wellbeing, had brought her positively to the verge of 

I I A 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


dissolution. She alone could understand what I was} 
feeling ; certainly her young footman was not the person 
to do so; for him, who was as unlike the Combray type 
as it was possible to conceive, packing up, moving, living} 
in another district, were all like taking a holiday in which# 
the novelty of one’s surroundings gave one the same senseff 
of refreshment as if one had actually travelled; he 
thought he was in the country ; and a cold in the headg 
afforded him, as though he had been sitting in a draughty 
railway carriage, the delicious sensation of having seen 
the world ; at each fresh sneeze he rejoiced that he hadg 
found so smart a place, having always longed to be with 
people who travelled a lot. And so, without giving him 
a thought, I went straight to Frangoise, who, in return 
for my having laughed at her tears over a removal which 
had left me cold, now shewed an icy indifference to my§ 
sorrow, but because she shared it. The “sensibility ” 
claimed by neurotic people is matched by their egotism; 
they cannot abide the flaunting by others of the sufferings 
to which they pay an ever increasing attention in them- 
selves. Francoise, who would not allow the least of her 
own ailments to pass unnoticed, if I were in pain would’ 
turn her head from me so that I should not have the 
satisfaction of seeing my sufferings pitied, or so much as 
observed. It was the same as soon as I tried to speak 
to her about our new house. Moreover, having been 
obliged, a day or two later, to return to the house we 
had just left, to retrieve some clothes which had been 
overlooked in our removal, while I, as a result of it, had 
still a “temperature ”, and like a boa constrictor that has 
just swallowed an ox felt myself painfully distended by 
the sight of a long trunk which my eyes had still to digest, 
2 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


)rancoise, with true feminine inconstancy, came back say- 
nig that she had really thought she would stifle on our 
«.d boulevard, it was so stuffy, that she had found it quite 
2 day’s journey to get there, that never had she seen such 
hairs, that she would not go back to live there for a king’s 
*insom, not if you were to offer her millions—a pure 
¢|ypothesis—and that everything (everything, that is to 
djty, to do with the kitchen and “ usual offices ”) was much 
yietter fitted up in the new house. Which, it is high time 
now that the reader should be told—and told also that we 
djad moved into it because my grandmother, not having 
hieen at all well (though we took care to keep this reason 
nom her), was in need of better air—was a flat forming 
tart of the Hotel de Guermantes. 

i} At the age when a Name, offering us an image of the 
yjnknowable which we have poured into its mould, while 
"\t the same moment it connotes for us also an existing 
yjlace, forces us accordingly to identify one with the other 
8} such a point that we set out to seek in a city for a 
‘aul which it cannot embody but which we have no longer 
tae power to expel from the sound of its name, it is not 
dialy to towns and rivers that names give an individuality, 
¢|3 do allegorical paintings, it is not only the physical uni- 
slerse which they pattern with differences, people with 
Kiarvels, there is the social universe also; and so every 
Mlistoric house, in town or country, has its lady or its fairy, 
ts every forest has its spirit, as there is a nymph for every 
N:ream. Sometimes, hidden in the heart of its name, the 
djiiry is Benetoriied’ to suit the life of our imagination by 
s\‘hich she lives; thus it was that the atmosphere in which 
y/Ime. de Svecuattes existed in me, after having been for 
tjears no more than the shadow cast by a magic lantern 


3 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST _ 


slide or the light falling through a painted window, bea 
to let its colours fade when quite other dreams imprfeg' 
nated it with the bubbling coolness of her flowing streams 

And yet the fairy must perish 1f we come in contac 
with the real person to whom her name corresponds, fo: 
that person the name then begins to reflect, and she ha: 
in her nothing of the fairy; the fairy may revive if we 
remove ourself from the person, but if we remain in he: 
presence the fairy definitely dies and with her the name 
as happened to the family of Lusignan, which was fate¢ 
to become extinct on the day when the fairy Meélusine 
should disappear. Then the Name, beneath our succes 
sive “restorations” of which we may end by finding, a 
their original, the beautiful portrait of a strange lady 
whom we are never to meet, is nothing more than th 
mere photograph, for identification, to which we refer i 
order to decide whether we know, whether or not we 
ought to bow to a person who passes us in the street. Bu 
let a sensation from a bygone year—like those recordin; 
instruments which preserve the sound and the manner o 
the various artists who have sung or played into them 
enable our memory to make us hear that name with thi 
particular ring with which it then sounded in our ears 
then, while the name itself has apparently not changed 
we feel the distance that separates the dreams which a 
different times its same syllables have meant to us. Fo 
a moment, from the clear echo of its warbling in somé 
distant spring, we can extract, as from the little tube 
which we use in painting, the exact, forgotten, mysteriou 
fresh tint of the days which we had believed ourself to b 
recalling, when, like a bad painter, we were giving to th 
whole of our past, spread out on the same canvas, thi 

4 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


Jynes, conventional and all alike, of our unprompted mem- 
|ry. Whereas on the contrary, each of the moments that 
jomposed it employed, for an original creation, in a match- 
iss harmony, the colour of those days which we no longer 
tnow, and which, for that matter, will still suddenly en- 
dapture me if by any chance the name “Guermantes” 

i2suming for a moment, after all these years, the sound, 
|9 different from its sound to-day, which it had for me 
jn the day of Mlle. Percepied’s marriage, brings back to 
he that mauve—so delicate, almost too bright, too new 
-with which the billowy scarf of the young Duchess 
tlowed, and, like two periwinkle flowers, growing beyond 
each and blossoming now again, her two eyes, sunlit with 
4n azure smile. And the name Guermantes of those days 
13 also like one of those little balloons which have been 
wiled with oxygen, or some such gas; when I come to 
(xplode it, to make it emit what it contains, I breathe the 
gir of the Combray of that year, of that day, mingled with 
{i fragrance of hawthorn blossom blown by the wind from 
he corner of the square, harbinger of rain, which now 
gent the sun packing, now let him spread himself over the 
Jed woollen carpet to the sacristy, steeping it in a bright 
eranium scarlet, with that, so to speak, Wagnerian har- 
| ony i in its gaiety which makes the coerce: service al- 
ft ays impressive. But even apart from rare moments stich 
48 these, in which suddenly we feel the original entity 
guiver and resume its form, carve itself out of the syllables 
\:ow soundless, dead; if, in the giddy rush of daily life, 
49 which they serve only -the most practical ‘purposes, 
yiames have lost all their colour, like a prismatic top that 
pins too quickly and seems only grey, when, on the other 
land, in our musings we reflect, we seek, so as to return 


5 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


to the past, to slacken, to suspend the perpetual motion by 
which we are borne along, gradually we see once mor 
appear, side by side, but entirely distinct from one an- 
other, the tints which in the course of our existence have 
been successively presented to us by a single name. | 

What form was assumed in my mind by this name 
Guermantes when my first nurse—knowing no more, 
probably, than I know to-day in whose honour it had been 
composed—sang me to sleep with that old ditty, Gloire 4 
la Marquise de Guermantes, or when, some years later, 
the veteran Maréchal de Guermantes, making my nursery- 
maid’s bosom swell with pride, stopped in the Champs 
Elysees to remark: “A fine child, that!” and gave m 
a chocolate drop from his comfit-box, I cannot, of course 
now say. Those years of my earliest childhood are n 


reality to abandon a position that was no longer tenable 
established themselves anew in one slightly less advance 
until they were obliged to retire still farther. And, wit 
Mme. de Guermantes, was transformed simultaneously 
her dwelling, itself also the offspring of that name, fer- 
tilised from year to year by some word or other that came 
to my ears and modulated the tone of my musings; that 
dwelling of hers reflected them in its very stones, which 
had turned to mirrors, like the surface of a cloud or of a 
Jake. A dungeon keep without mass, no more indeed than 

6 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


a band of orange light from the summit of which the 
lord and his lady dealt out life and death to their vassals, 
vhad given place—right at the end of that “ Guermantes 
“way” along which, on so many summer afternoons, | 
retraced with my parents the course of the Vivonne—to 
that land of bubbling streams where the Duchess taught 
me to fish for trout and to know the names of the flowers 
whose red and purple clusters adorned the walls of the 
neighbouring gardens; then it had been the ancient heri- 
jtage, famous in song and story, from which the proud 
race of Guermantes, like a carved and mellow tower that 
traverses the ages, had risen already over France when 
the sky was still empty at those points where, later, were 
ito rise Notre Dame of Paris and Notre Dame of Chartres, 
hen on the summit of the hill of Laon the nave of its 
cathedral had not yet been poised, like the Ark of the 
Deluge on the summit of Mount Ararat, crowded with 
Patriarchs and Judges anxiously leaning from its windows 
to see whether the wrath of God were yet appeased, 
‘carrying with it the types of the vegetation that was to 
multiply on the earth, brimming over with animals which 
have escaped even by the towers, where oxen grazing 
calmly upon the roof look down over the plains of Cham- 
‘pagne; when the traveller who left Beauvais at the close 
‘of day did not yet see, following him and turning with 
his road, outspread against the gilded screen of the western 
sky, the black, ribbed wings of the cathedral. It was, this 
“Guermantes”, like the scene of a novel, an imaginary 
landscape which I could with difficulty picture to myself 
and longed all the more to discover, set in the midst of 
‘real lands and roads which all of a sudden would become 
alive with heraldic details, within a few miles of a railway 


7 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


station; I recalled the names of the places round it as if 
they had been situated at the foot of Parnassus or of | 
Helicon, and they seemed precious to me, as the physical 
conditions—in the realm of topographical science—re- 
quired for the production of an unaccountable phenome-| 
non. I saw again the escutcheons blazoned beneath the 
windows of Combray church; their quarters filled, century 
after century, with all the lordships which, by marriage 
or conquest, this illustrious house had brought flying to 
it from all the corners of Germany, Italy and France; vast 
territories in the North, strong cities in the South, assem- 
bled there to group themselves in Guermantes, and, los-' 
ing their material quality, to inscribe allegorically their 
dungeon vert, or castle triple-towered argent upon its. 
azure field. I had heard of the famous tapestries of Guer- 
mantes, I could see them, mediaeval and blue, a trifle 
coarse, detach themselves like a floating cloud from the 
legendary, amaranthine name at the foot of the ancient | 
forest in which Childebert went so often hunting; and _ 
this delicate, mysterious background of their lands, this 
vista of the ages, it seemed to me that, as effectively as 
by journeying to see them, I might penetrate all their 
secrets simply by coming in contact for a moment in 
Paris with Mme. de Guermantes, the princess paramount 
of the place and lady of the lake, as if her face, her speech 
must possess the local charm of forest groves and 
streams, and the same secular peculiarities as the old cus- 
toms recorded in her archives. But then I had met Saint- 
Loup; he had told me that the castle had borne the name 
of Guermantes only since the seventeenth century, when 
that family had acquired it. They had lived, until then, 
in the neighbourhood, but their title was not taken from 
8 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


those parts. The village of Guermantes had received its 
|.ame from the castle round which it had been built, and 
30 that it should not destroy the view from the castle, a 
servitude, still in force, traced the line of its streets and 
limited the height of its houses. As for the tapestries, 
}chey were by Boucher, bought in the nineteenth century 
}oy a Guermantes with a taste for the arts, and hung, 
mterspersed with a number of sporting pictures of no 
merit which he himself had painted, in a hideous drawing- 
}room upholstered in “adrianople” and plush. By these 
revelations Saint-Loup had introduced into the castle ele- 
ments foreign to the name of Guermantes which made it 
impossible for me to continue to extract solely from the 
resonance of the syllables the stone and mortar of its walls. 
And so, in the heart of the name, was effaced the castle 
mirrored in its lake, and what now became apparent to 
me, surrounding Mme. de Guermantes as her dwelling, 
had been her house in Paris, the Hotel de Guermantes, 
limpid like its name, for no material and opaque element 
intervened to interrupt and blind its transparence. As the 
word church signifies not only the temple but the assembly 
of the faithful also, this Hétel de Guermantes comprised 
all those who shared the life of the Duchess, but these 
intimates on whom I had never set eyes were for me only 
famous and poetic names, and knowing exclusively per- 
sons who themselves also were names only, did but en- 
hance and protect the mystery of the Duchess by extend- 
ing all round her a vast halo which at the most declined 
in brilliance as its circumference increased. 
In the parties which she gave, since I could not imagine 
the guests as having any bodies, any moustaches, any 
boots, as making any utterances that were commonplace, 


9 


| 
REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST | 
oz even original in a human and rational way, this whirl- | 
pool of names, introducing less material substance than 
would a phantom banquet or a spectral ball, round that | 
statuette in Dresden china which was Madame de Guer- | 
mantes, kept for her palace of glass the transparence of a | 
showcase. Then, after Saint-Loup had told me various 
anecdotes about his cousin’s chaplain, her gardener, and 

the rest, the Hétel de Guermantes had become—as the 

Louvre might have been in days gone by—a kind of castle, | 
surrounded, in the very heart of Paris, by its own domains, | 
acquired by inheritance, by virtue of an ancient right 
that had quaintly survived, over which she still enjoyed | 
feudal privileges. But this last dwelling itself vanished | 
when we had come to live beside Mme. de Villeparisis in 
one of the flats adjoining that occupied by Mme. de Guer- | 
mantes in a wing of the Hotel. It was one of those old | 
town houses, a few of which are perhaps still to be found, | 
in which the court of honour—whether they were alluvial | 
deposits washed there by the rising tide of democracy, 
or a legacy from a more primitive time when the different | 
trades were clustered round the overlord—is flanked by 
little shops and workrooms, a shoemaker’s, for instance, or + 
a tailor’s, such as we see nestling between the buttresses 
of those cathedrals which the aesthetic zeal of the restorer 
has not swept clear of such accretions; a porter who also | 
does cobbling, keeps hens, grows flowers, and, at the far 

end, in the main building, a “ Comtesse” who, when she | 
drives out in her old carriage and pair, flaunting on her | 
hat a few nasturtiums which seem to have escaped from 

the plot by the porter’s lodge (with, by the coachman’s 

side on the box, a footman who gets down to leave cards 

at every aristocratic mansion in the neighbourhood), scat- | 

10 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


Jers vague little smiles and waves her hand in greeting 
Jo the porter’s children and to such of her respectable 
\ellow-tenants as may happen to be passing, who, to her 
j:ontemptuous affability and levelling pride, seem all the 
} ame. 

In the house in which we had now come to live, the 
sreat lady at the end of the courtyard was a Duchess, 
mart and still quite young. She was, in fact, Mme. de 
Suermantes and, thanks to Frangoise, I soon came to 
snow all about her household. For the Guermantes (to 
vhom Francoise regularly alluded as the people “ below Ae 
or “ downstairs”) were her constant preoccupation from 
he first thing in the morning when, as she did Mamma’s 
aair, casting a forbidden, irresistible, furtive glance down 
mto the courtyard, she would say: “ Look at that, now; 
1 pair of holy Sisters; that'll be for downstairs, surely; ” 
or, “Oh! just look at the fine pheasants in the kitchen 
window; no need to ask where they came from, the 
Duke will have been out with his gun! ”—until the last 
thing at night when, if her ear, while she was putting out 
my night-things, caught a few notes of a song, she would 
conclude: “They’re having company down below; gay 
doings, I’ll be bound;” whereupon, in her symmetrical 
face, beneath the arch of her now snow-white hair, a 
smile from her young days, sprightly but proper, would 
for a moment set each of her features in its place, arrang- 
ing them in an intricate and special order, as though for 
a country-dance. 

But the moment in the life of the Guermantes which 
excited the keenest interest in Francoise, gave her the 
most complete satisfaction and at the same time the 
sharpest annoyance was that at which, the two halves of 

Il 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


the great gate having been thrust apart, the Duchess 
stepped into her carriage. It was generally a little while 
after our servants had finished the celebration of that 
sort of solemn passover which none might disturb, called 
their midday dinner, during which they were so far tabo 
that my father himself was not allowed to ring for them, 
knowing moreover that none of them would have paid 
any more attention to the fifth peal than to the first, and 
that the discourtesy would therefore have been a pure 
waste of time and trouble, though not without trouble in 
store for himself. For Frangoise (who, in her old age, 
lost no opportunity of standing upon her dignity) would 
without fail have presented him, for the rest of the day, 
with a face covered with the tiny red cuneiform hiero 
glyphs by which she made visible—though by no means 
legible—to the outer world the long tale of her griefs 
and the profound reasons for her dissatisfactions. She 
would enlarge upon them, too, in a running “ aside”’, : 


not so that we could catch her words. She called this prac 
tice—which, she imagined, must be infuriating, “ morti- 
fying” as she herself put it, “ Veune ” to us—“ saying 
low masses all the blessed day.” | 

The last rites accomplished, Francoise, who was at one 
and the same time, as in the primitive church, the cele- 
brant and one of the faithful, helped herself to a final 
glass, undid the napkin from her throat, folded it after 
wiping from her lips a stain of watered wine and coffee, 
slipped it into its ring, turned a doleful ‘eye to thank 
“her” young footman who, to shew his zeal in her serv- 
ice, was saying: “Come, ma’am, a drop more of the 
grape; it’s d’licious to-day,” and went straight across to 
the window, which she flung open, protesting that it was 

12 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


@ously casting, as she turned the latch and let in the fresh 
ur, a glance of studied indifference into the courtyard 
joelow, she furtively elicited the conclusion that the 
yDuchess was not ready yet to start, brooded for a mo- 
nent with contemptuous, impassioned eyes over the wait- 
| ng carriage, and, this meed of attention once paid to the 
Ichings of the earth, raised them towards the heavens, 
dvhose purity she had already divined from the sweetness 
af the air and the warmth of the sun; and let them rest 
jon a corner of the roof, at the place where, every spring, 
j:here came and built, immediately over the chimney of 
jmy bedroom, a pair of pigeons like those she used to 
aear cooing from her kitchen at Combray. 

“Ah! Combray, Combray!” she cried. And the almost 
{singing tone in which she declaimed this invocation might, 
:aken with the Arlesian purity of her features, have made 
jhe onlooker suspect her of a Southern origin and that 
4:he lost land which she was lamenting was no more, really, 
dchan a land of adoption. If so, he would have been 

wrong, for it seems that there is no province that has not 
|ts own South-country; do we not indeed constantly meet 
j5avoyards and Bretons in whose speech we find all those 
Joleasing transpositions of longs and shorts that are char-. 
ij2cteristic of the Southerner? “Ah, Combray, when shall I 
ook on thee again, poor land! When shall I pass the 
dlessed day among thy hawthorns, under our own poor 
ily-oaks, hearing the grasshoppers sing, and the Vivonne 
jmaking a little noise like someone whispering, instead of 
chat wretched bell from our young master, who can never 
stay still for half an hour on end without having me run 
the length of that wicked corridor. And even then he 


13 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


makes out I don’t come quick enough; you’ld need to) 
hear the bell ring before he has pulled it, and if you’re a 
minute late, away he flies into the most towering rage. | 
Alas, poor Combray; maybe I shall see thee only in death, 
ren they drop me like a stone into the hollow of the. 
tomb. And so, nevermore shall I smell thy lovely haw-. 
thorns, so white and all. But in the sleep of death I dare! 
say I shall still hear those three peals of the bell which, 
will have driven me to damnation in this world.” 

Her soliloquy was interrupted by the voice of the waist- 
coat-maker downstairs, the same who had so delighted 
my grandmother once, long ago, when she had gone to 
pay a call on Mme. de Villeparisis, and now occupied no 
less exalted a place in Frangoise’s affections. Having raised, 
his head when he heard our window open, he had already | 
been trying for some time to attract his neighbour’s atten-. 
tion, in order to bid her good day. The coquetry of the| 
young girl that Francoise had once been softened and 
refined for M. Jupien the querulous face of our old cook,| 
dulled by age, ill-temper and the heat of the kitchen fire, 
and it was with a charming blend of reserve, familiarity 
and modesty that she bestowed a gracious salutation on 
the waistcoat-maker, but without making any audible re- 
sponse, for if she did infringe Mamma’s orders by look- 
ing into the courtyard, she would never have dared to go 
the length of talking from the window, which would have 
been quite enough (according to her) to bring down on: 
her “a whole chapter” from the Mistress. She pointed 
to the waiting carriage, as who should say: “A fine pair, 

eh!” though what she actually muttered was: “ What 
an old rattle-trap!” but principally because she knew 
that he would be bound to answer, putting his hand 

14 


: 8 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


o his lips so as to be audible without having to shout: 

“ You could have one too if you liked, as good as they 
iave and better, I dare say, only you don’t care for that 
ort of thing.” 

And Frangoise, after a modest, evasive signal of delight, 
he meaning of which was, more or less: “Tastes differ, 
rou know; simplicity’s the rule in this house,” shut the 
vindow again in case Mamma should come in. These 
‘you” who might have had more horses than the Guer- 
nantes were ourselves, but Jupien was right in saying 
‘you” since, except for a few purely personal gratifi- 
ations, such as, when she coughed all day long without 
easing and everyone in the house was afraid of catching 
ier cold, that of pretending, with an irritating little titter, 
hat she had not got a cold, like those plants that an 
nimal to which they are wholly attached keeps alive with 
ood which it catches, eats and digests for them and of 
vhich it offers them the ultimate and easily assimilable 
esidue, Francoise lived with us in full community; it 
vas we who, with our virtues, our wealth, our style of 
iving, must take on ourselves the task of concocting 
hose little sops to her vanity out of which was formed 
—with the addition of the recognised rights of freely prac- 
ising the cult of the midday dinner according to the tra- 
litional custom, which included a mouthful of air at the 
vindow when the meal was finished, a certain amount of 
oitering in the street when she went out to do her market- 
ng, and a holiday on Sundays when she paid a visit to 
ler niece—the portion of happiness indispensable to her 
*xistence. And so it can be understood that Francoise 
night well have succumbed in those first days of our 
nigration, a victim, in a house where my father’s claims 


15 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


to distinction were not yet alk to a malady which 
she herself called “wearying”, wearying in the active 
sense in which the word ennui is employed by Corneille, 
or in the last letters of soldiers who end by taking their 
own lives because they are wearying for their girls or for 
their native villages. Francoise’s wearying had soon been 
cured by none other than Jupien, for he at once procured 
her a pleasure no less keen, indeed more refined than 
she would have felt if we had decided to keep a carriage, 
“Very good class, those Juliens,” (for Francoise readily 
assimilated new names to those with which she was 
already familiar) “very worthy people; you can see it 
written on their faces.” Jupien was in fact able to under- 
stand, and to inform the world that if we did not keep a 
carriage it was because we had no wish for one. This new 
friend of Francoise was very little at home, having ob- 
tained a post in one of the Government offices. A waist- 
coat-maker first of all, with the “ chit of a girl” whom my 
grandmother had taken for his daughter, he had lost all 
interest in the exercise of that calling after his assistant 
(who, when still little more than a child, had shewn great 
skill in darning a torn skirt, that day when my grand- 
mother had gone to call on Mme. de Villeparisis) had 
turned to ladies’ fashions and become a seamstress. A 
prentice hand, to begin with, in a dressmaker’s workroom, 
set to stitch a seam, to fasten a flounce, to sew on a butto 
or to press a crease, to fix a waistband with hooks an 
eyes, she had quickly risen to be second and then chief 
assistant, and having formed a connexion of her own 
among ladies of fashion now worked at home, that is to 
Say in our courtyard, generally with one or two of her 
young friends from the workroom, whom she had taken 
16 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


on as apprentices. After this, Jupien’s presence in the 
‘piace had ceased to matter. No doubt the little girl (a big 
igirl by this time) had often to cut out waistcoats still. But 
with her friends to assist her she needed no one besides. 
And so Jupien, her uncle, had sought employment outside. 
‘He was free at first to return home at midday, then, when 
he had definitely succeeded the man whose substitute only 
he had begun by being, not before dinner-time. His ap- 
pointment to the ‘ ‘regular establishment” was, fortu- 
nately, not announced until some weeks after our arrival, 
‘so that his courtesy could be brought to bear on her long 
‘enough to help Francoise to pass through the first, most 
difficult phase without undue suffering. At the same time, 
jand without underrating his value to Francoise as, so to 
speak, a sedative during the period of transition, I am 
bound to say that my first impression of Jupien had been 
far from favourable. At a little distance, entirely ruining 
the effect that his plump cheeks and vivid colouring 
would otherwise have produced, his eyes, brimming with 
a compassionate, mournful, dreamy gaze, led one to sup- 
pose that he was seriously ill or had just suffered a great 
bereavement. Not only was he nothing of the sort, but as 
soon as he opened his mouth (and his speech, by the way, 
was perfect) he was quite markedly cynical and cold. 
There resulted from this discord between eyes and lips a 
certain falsity which was not attractive, and by which he 
had himself the air of being made as uncomfortable as a 
guest who arrives in morning dress at a party where 
everyone else is in evening dress, or as a commoner who 
having to speak to a Royal Personage does not know 
exactly how he ought to address him and gets round the 
difficulty by cutting down his remarks to almost nothing. 
I 17 B 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


Jupien’s (here the comparison ends) were, on the con- 
trary, charming. Indeed, corresponding possibly to this 
overflowing of his face by his eyes (which one ceased to 
notice when one came to know him), I soon discerned in 
him a rare intellect, and one of the most spontaneously 
literary that it has been my privilege to come across, in 
the sense that, probably without education, he possessed 
or had assimilated, with the help only of a few books 
skimmed in early life, the most ingenious turns of speech, 
The most gifted people that I had known had died young. 
And so I was convinced that Jupien’s life would soon be 
cut short. Kindness was among his qualities, and pity, the 
most delicate and the most generous feelings for others. 
But his part in the life of Francoise had soon ceased ta 
be indispensable. She had learned to put up with under- 
studies. 

Indeed, when a tradesman or servant came to our door 
with a parcel or message, while seeming to pay no atten- 
tion and merely pointing vaguely to an empty chair, Fran- 
coise so skilfully put to the best advantage the few second 
that he spent in the kitchen, while he waited for Mamma’s 
answer, that it was very seldom that the stranger went 
away without having ineradicably engraved upon hi 
memory the conviction that, if we “did not have” an 
particular thing, it was because we had “no wish” for it; 
If she made such a point of other people’s knowing that 
we “had money” (for she knew nothing of what Saint- 
Loup used to call partitive articles, and said simply “ have 
money ”, “fetch water”), of their realising that we wer 
rich, it was not because riches with nothing else besides. 
riches without virtue, were in her eyes the supreme good 
in life; but virtue without riches was not her ideal either 

18 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


Riches were for her, so to speak, a necessary condition 
of virtue, failing which virtue itself would lack both merit 
and charm. She distinguished so little between them that 
she had come in time to invest each with the other’s attri- 
butes, to expect some material comfort from virtue, to 
discover something edifying in riches. 

As soon as she had shut the window again, which she 
did quickly—otherwise Mamma would, it appeared, have 
heaped on her “ every conceivable insult ”»—Frangoise be- 
gan with many groans and sighs to put straight the kitchen 
table. 

_ “There are some Guermantes who stay in the Rue de 
a Chaise,” began my father’s valet; “I had a friend who 
used to be with them; he was their second coachman. And 
[ know a fellow, not my old pal, but his brother-in-law, 
who did his time in the Army with one of the Baron de 
Guermantes’s stud grooms. Does your mother know 
you're out?” added the valet, who was in the habit, just 
as he used to hum the popular airs of the season, of 
Deppering his conversation with all the latest witticisms. 
_ Frangoise, with the tired eyes of an ageing woman, 
2yes which moreover saw everything from Combray, in a 
hazy distance, made out not the witticism that underlay 
che words, but that there must be something witty in them 
since they bore no relation to the rest of his speech and 
nad been uttered with considerable emphasis by one 
whom she knew to be a joker. She smiled at him, there- 
‘ore, with an air of benevolent bewilderment, as who 
should say: “ Always the same, that Victor!” And she 
Was genuinely pleased, knowing that listening to smart 
sayings of this sort was akin—if remotely—to those re- 
dutable social pleasures for which, in every class of 


19 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


society, people make haste to dress themselves in their 
best and run the risk of catching cold. Furthermore, she 
believed the valet to be a friend after her own heart, for 
he never left off denouncing, with fierce indignation, the 
appalling measures which the Republic was about to en- 
force against the clergy. Francoise had not yet learned 
that our cruellest adversaries are not those who contradict 
and try to convince us, but those who magnify or invent 
reports which may make us unhappy, taking care not te 
include any appearance of justification, which might lessen 
our discomfort, and perhaps give us some slight regard 
for a party which they make a point of displaying to us 
to complete our torment, as being at once terrible and 
triumphant. 

“The Duchess must be connected with all that lots 
said Francoise, bringing the conversation back to the 
Guermantes of the Rue de la Chaise, as one plays a piect 
over again from the andante. “I can’t recall who it wai 
told me that one of them had married a cousin of thi 
Duke. It’s the same kindred, anyway. Ay, they’re a grea 
family, the Guermantes!” she added, in a tone of respect 
founding the greatness of the family at once on the num 
ber of its branches and the brilliance of its connexions 
as Pascal founds the truth of Religion on Reason and of 
the Authority of the Scriptures. F or since there was bu 
the single word “great” to express both meanings, i 
seemed to her that they formed a single idea, her vocabu 
lary, like cut stones sometimes, shewing thus on certai 
of its facets a flaw which projected a ray of darkness int 
the recesses of her mind. “I wonder now if it wouldn’ 
be them that have their castle at Guermantes, not a scor 
of miles from Combray; then they must be kin to thei 

20 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


ousin at Algiers, too.” My mother and I long asked our- 
elves who this cousin at Algiers could be until finally we 
liscovered that Francoise meant by the name “ Algiers ” 
he town of Angers. What is far off may be more familiar 
ous than what is quite near. Francoise, who knew the 
came “ Algiers ” from some particularly unpleasant dates 
hat used to be given us at the New Year, had never heard 
f Angers. Her language, like the French language itself, 
nd especially that of place-names, was thickly strewn 
mth errors. “I meant to talk to their butler about it. 
Vhat is it again you call him?” she interrupted herself 
s though putting a formal question as to the correct pro- 
edure, which she went on to answer with: “ Oh, of 
durse, it’s Antoine you call him!” as though Antoine had 
een a title. “ He’s the one who could tell me, but he’s 
uite the gentleman, he is, a great scholar, you’ld say 
1ey’d cut his tongue out, or that he’d forgotten to learn 
» speak. He makes no response when you talk to him,” 
ent on Francoise, who used “ make response” in the 
ime sense as Mme. de Sévigné. “ But,” she added, quite 
atruthfully, “so long as I know what’s boiling in my 
ot, I don’t bother my head about what’s in other people’s. 
Vhatever he is, he’s not a Catholic, Besides, he’s not a 
vurageous man.” (This criticism might have led one to 
ippose that Francoise had changed her mind about phy- 
cal bravery which, according to her, in Combray days, 
wered men to the level of wild beasts. But it was not 
. “ Courageous ” meant simply a hard worker.) “ They 
) Say, too, that he’s thievish as a magpie, but it doesn’t 
) to believe all one hears. The servants never stay long 
ere because of the lodge; the porters are jealous and 
t the Duchess against them. But it’s safe to say that 
21 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


he’s a real twister, that Antoine, and his Antoinesse 1 
no better,” concluded Francoise, who, in furnishing th 
name “ Antoine ” with a feminine ending that would desig 
nate the butler’s wife, was inspired, no doubt, in her at 
of word-formation by an unconscious memory of th 
words chanoine and chanoinesse. If so, she was not fe 
wrong. There is still a street near Notre-Dame called Ru 
Chanoinesse, a name which must have been given to 
(since it was never inhabited by any but male Canons) b 
those Frenchmen of olden days of whom Frangoise wa 
properly speaking, the contemporary. She proceede 
moreover, at once to furnish another example of this wa 
of forming feminine endings, for she went on: “ But o1 
thing sure and certain is that it’s the Duchess thi 
has Guermantes Castle. And it’s she that is the Lac 
Mayoress down in those parts. That’s always something 
“T can well believe that it is something,” came with co; 
viction from the footman, who had not detected the iron 
“You think so, do you, my boy, you think it’s som 
thing? Why, for folk like them to be Mayor and Mayores 
it’s just thank you for nothing. Ah, if it was mine, th 
Guermantes Castle, you wouldn’t see me setting foot 
Paris, I can tell you. I’m sure a family who’ve got som 
thing to go on with, like Monsieur and Madame het 
must have queer ideas to stay on in this wretched tov 
rather than get away down to Combray the mome 
they’re free to start, and no one hindering them. Why | 
they put off retiring? They’ve got everything they wai 
Why wait till they’re dead? Ah, if I had only a crust 
dry bread to eat and a faggot to keep me warm in wint 
a fine time I’ld have of it at home in my brother’s pc 
old house at Combray. Down there you do feel you 
22 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


live; you haven’t all these houses stuck up in front of 
you, there is so little noise at night-time, you can hear the 
ss singing five miles off and more.” 

“That must indeed be fine!” exclaimed the young foot- 
man with enthusiasm, as though this last attraction had 
Seen as peculiar to Combray as the gondola is to Venice. 
‘\ more recent arrival in the household than my father’s 
valet, he used to talk to Frangoise about things which 
‘night interest not himself so much as her. And Fran- 
‘oise, whose face wrinkled up in disgust when she was 
‘reated as a mere cook, had for the young footman, who 
*eferred to her always as the “housekeeper”, that pe- 
‘uliar tenderness which Princes not of the blood royal 
‘eel towards the well- Hes young men who dignify 
‘hem with a “ Highness ”’. 
me At any rate one Unease what one’s about, there, and 
what time of year it is. It isn’t like here where you won’t 
‘ind one wretched buttercup flowering at holy Easter any 
‘nore than you would at Christmas, and I can’t hear so 
nuch as the tiniest angelus ring when I lift my old bones 
out of bed in the morning. Down there, you can hear 
‘very hour; there’s only the one poor bell, but you say 
0 Bearself: ‘My brother will be coming in from the field 
tow,’ and you watch the daylight fade, and the bell rings 
‘o bless the fruits of the earth, and you have time to take 
It turn before you light the lamp. But here it’s coy time 
und it’s night time, and you go to bed, and you can’t say 
‘ny more ian the dumb beasts what you’ve been about 
Il day.” 

' “1 gather Méséglise is a fine place, too, Madame,” 
woke in the young footman, who found that the conver- 
ation was becoming a little too abstract for his liking, 


23 


. mention Meéséglise. 


contemporary personage whose name the students hac 
| never supposed could possibly greet their ears from the 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


and happened to remember having heard us, at table 


ee 


“Oh! Meseglise, is it?” said Frangoise with the brody 
smile which one could always bring to her lips by uttering 
any of those names—Méséglise, Combray, Tansonville 
They were so intimate a part of her life that she felt, or 
meeting them outside it, on hearing them used in con: 
versation, a hilarity more or less ida to that which : 
professor excites in his class by making an allusion to som¢ 


height of the academic chair. Her pleasure arose also from 
the feeling that these places were something to her whicel 
they were not for the rest of the world, old companion} 
with whom one has shared many delights; and she smileg 
at them as if she found in them soncunte witty, becaus 
she did find there a great part of herself. 

“Yes, you may well say so, son, it is a pretty enoul 
place is Méséglise;” she went on with a tinkling laugh 
“but how did you ever come to hear tell of Méséglise?’ 

“How did I hear of Méséglise? But it’s a well-know 
place; people have told me about it—yes, over and ove 
again,” he assured her with that criminal inexactitud 
of the informer who, whenever we attempt to form al 
impartial estimate of the importance that a thing whic 
matters to us may have for other people, makes it im 
possible for us to succeed. 

“T can tell you, it’s better down there, under the cnc 
trees, than standing before the fire all day.” 

She spoke to them even of Eulalie as a good persor 
For since Eulalie’s death Francoise had completely fot 
gotten that she had loved her as little in her life tim 


24 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


3 she loved every one whose cupboard was bare, who 
as dying of hunger, and after that came, like a good 
yc nothing, thanks to the bounty of the rich, to “ put 
a airs”. It no longer pained her that Eulalie had so 
cilfully managed, Sunday after Sunday, to secure her 
trifle” from my aunt. As for the latter, Francoise never 
ft off singing her praises. 

“But it was at Combray, surely, that you used to be, 
ith a cousin of Madame?” asked the young footman. 
“Yes, with Mme. Octave—oh, a dear, good, holy 
roman, my poor friends, and a house where there was 
lways enough and to spare, and all of the very best, a 
ood woman, you may well say, who had no pity on the 
artridges, or the pheasants, or anything; you might turn 
D five to dinner or six, it was never the meat that 
yas lacking, and of the first quality too, and white wine, 
nd red wine, and everything you could wish.” (Francoise 
sed the word “pity” in the sense given it by La 
sruyere.) “It was she that paid the damages, always, 
ven if the family stayed for months and years.” (This 
eflexion was not really a slur upon us, for Frangoise be- 
onged to an epoch when the word “damages” was not 
stricted to a legal use and meant simply expense.) “ Ah, 
(can tell you, people didn’t go empty away from that 
souse. As his reverence the Curé has told us, many’s the 
ime, if there ever was a woman who could count on going 
traight before the Throne of God, it was she. Poor 
Mladame, I can hear her saying now, in the little voice she 
tad: ‘You know, Francoise, I can eat nothing myself, 
out I want it all to be just as nice for the others as if I 
vould. They weren’t for her, the victuals, you may be 
juite sure. If you’d only seen her, she weighed no more 


25 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


than a bag of cherries; there wasn’t that much of her 
She would never listen to a word I said, she would never 
send for the doctor. Ah, it wasn’t in that house that 
you'ld have to gobble down your dinner. She liked her 
servants to be fed properly. Here, it’s been just the same 
again to-day; we haven’t had time for so much as te 
break a crust of bread; everything goes like ducks and 
drakes.” 
What annoyed her more than anything were the rusk 
of pulled bread that my father used to eat. She wag 
convinced that he had them simply to give himself airs 
and to keep her “dancing”. “TI can tell you frankly,” the 
young footman assured her, “that I never saw the like” 
He said it as if he had seen everything, and as if in him 
the range of a millennial experience extended over al 
countries and their customs, among which was not any: 
where to be found a custom of eating pulled bread. “ Yes 
yes,” the butler muttered, “ but that will all be changed 
the men are going on strike in Canada, and the Ministe 
told Monsieur the other evening that he’s clearing twe 
hundred thousand francs out of it.” There was no note 
of censure in his tone, not that he was not himself entirely 
honest, but since he regarded all politicians as unsoun¢ 
the crime of peculation seemed to him less serious thar 
the pettiest larceny. He did not even stop to ask himsel 
whether he had heard this historic utterance aright, anc 
was not struck by the improbability that such a thing 
would have been admitted by the guilty party himself t( 
my father without my father’s immediately turning hin} 
out of the house. But the philosophy of Combray made i} 
impossible for Frangoise to expect that the strikes ir} 
Canada could have any repercussion on the use of pulled 
26 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


read. “So long as the world goes round, look, there’ll 
e masters to keep us on the trot, and servants to do 
heir bidding.” In disproof of this theory of perpetual mo- 
ion, for the last quarter of an hour my mother (who 
srobably did not employ the same measures of time as 
‘rancoise in reckoning the duration of the latter’s dinner) 
iad been saying: 

“What on earth can they be doing? They’ve been at 
east two hours at their dinner.” a“ 
_ And she rang timidly three or four times. Francoise, 
*her” footman, the butler heard the bell ring, not as a 
ummons to themselves, and with no thought of answer- 
ng it, but rather like the first sounds of the instruments 
yeing tuned when the next part of a concert is just going 
10 begin, and one knows that there will be only a few 
minutes more of interval. And so, when the peals were 
repeated and became more urgent, our servants began 
‘0 pay attention, and, judging that they had not much 
ame left and that the resumption of work was at hand, 
it a peal somewhat louder than the rest gave a collective 
sigh and went their several ways, the footman slipping 
Jownstairs to smoke a cigarette outside the door, Fran- 
soise, after a string of reflexions on ourselves, such as: 
“They’ve got the jumps to-day, surely,” going up to put 
ner things tidy in her attic, while the butler, having sup- 
plied himself first with note-paper from my bedroom, 
polished off the arrears of his private correspondence. 

_ Despite the apparent stiffness of their butler, Francoise 
had been in a position, from the first, to inform me that 
the Guermantes occupied their mansion by virtue not of an 
immemorial right but of a quite recent tenancy, and that 
the garden over which it looked on the side that I did 


27 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


not know was quite small and just like all the gardens 
along the street; and I realised at length that there wert 
not to be seen there pit and gallows or fortified mill 
secret chamber, pillared dovecot, manorial bakehouse 0 
tithe-barn, dungeon or drawbridge, or fixed bridge either 
for that matter, any more than toll-houses or pinnacles 
charters, muniments, ramparts or commemorative mounds 
But just as Elstir, when the bay of Balbec, losing its} 
mystery, had become for me simply a portion, inter] 
changeable with any other, of the total quantity of salt 
water distributed over the earth’s surface, had suddenly 
restored to it a personality of its own by telling me that 
it was the gulf of opal painted by Whistler in his “ Hari 
monies in Blue and Silver ”, so the name Guermantes hac 
seen perish under the strokes of Francoise’s hammer the 
last of the dwellings that had issued from its syllablesif 
when one day an old friend of my father said to us, speak. 
ing of the Duchess: “ She is the first lady in the Faubourg 
Saint-Germain; hers is the leading house in the Faubourgif 
Saint-German.” No doubt the most exclusive drawing-|f 
room, the leading house in the Faubourg Saint-Germain 
was little or nothing after all those other mansions of 
which in turn I had dreamed. And yet in this one too, 
(and it was to be the last of the series) there was some-if 
thing, however humble, quite apart from its material com- 
ponents, a secret differentiation. | 

And it became all the more essential that I should bel} 
able to explore in the drawing-room of Mme, de Guer-#f 
mantes, among her friends, the mystery of her name, 
since I did not find it in her person when I saw her leavell 
the house in the morning on foot, or in the afternoon inf 
her carriage. Once before, indeed, in the church at Com- 

28 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


gray, she had appeared to me in the blinding flash of a 
ransfiguration, with cheeks irreducible to, impenetrable 
oy the colour of the name Guermantes and of afternoons 
on the banks of the Vivonne, taking the place of my shat- 
cered dream like a swan or willow into which has been 
changed a god or nymph, and which henceforward, sub- 
jected to natural laws, will glide over the water or be 
shaken by the wind. And yet, when that radiance had 
vanished, hardly had I lost sight of it before it formed 
itself again, like the green and rosy afterglow of sunset 
after the sweep of the oar that has broken it, and in the 
solitude of my thoughts the name had quickly appropri- 
ated to itself my impression of the face. But now, fre- 
guently, I saw her at her window, in the courtyard, in the 
street, and for myself at least if I did not succeed in inte- 
grating in her the name Guermantes, I cast the blame on 
the impotence of my mind to accomplish the whole act that 
I demanded of it; but she, our neighbour, she seemed to 
make the same error, nay more to make it without dis- 
comfiture, without any of my scruples, without even sus- 
pecting that it was an error. Thus Mme. de Guermantes 
shewed in her dresses the same anxiéty to follow the 
fashions as if, believing herself to have become simply a 
woman like all the rest, she had aspired to that elegance 
in her attire in which other ordinary women might equal 
and perhaps surpass her; I had seen her in the street 
aze admiringly at a well-dressed actress; and in the 
morning, before she sallied forth on foot, as if the opinion 
of the passers-by, whose vulgarity she accentuated by 
parading familiarly through their midst her inaccessible 
life, could be a tribunal competent to judge her, I would 
see her before the glass playing, with a conviction free 


29 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


from all pretence or irony, with passion, with ill-humour, 
with conceit, like a queen who has consented to appear 
as a servant-girl in theatricals at court, this part, so un- 
worthy of her, of a fashionable woman; and in this mytho- 
logical oblivion of her natural grandeur, she looked to see 
whether her veil was hanging properly, smoothed her 
cuffs, straightened her cloak, as the celestial swan per-] 
forms all the movements natural to his animal species, 
keeps his eyes painted on either side of his beak without 
putting into them any glint of life, and darts suddenly 
after a bud or an umbrella, as a swan would, without re- 
membering that he is a god. But as the traveller, disap- 
pointed by the first appearance of a strange town, reminds 
himself that he will doubtless succeed in penetrating its 
charm if he visits its museums and galleries, so I assured 
myself that, had I been given the right of entry into Mme, 
de Guermantes’s house, were I one of her friends, were I 
to penetrate into her life, I should then know what, within 
its glowing orange-tawny envelope, her name did really, 
objectively enclose for other people, since, after all, my 
father’s friend had said that the Guermantes set was some- 
thing quite by itself in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. 
The life which I supposed them to lead there flowed 
from a source so different from anything in my experience, 
and must, I felt, be so indissolubly associated with that 
particular house that I could not have imagined the pres- 
ence, at the Duchess’s parties, of people in whose com- 
pany I myself had already been, of people who really 
existed. For not being able suddenly to change their na- 
ture, they would have carried on conversations there of 
the sort that I knew; their partners would perhaps have 
stooped to reply to them in the same human speech; and, 
30 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


in the course of an evening spent in the leading house in 
the Faubourg Saint-Germain, there would have been mo- 
ments identical with moments that I had already lived. 
Which was impossible. It was thus that my mind was 
embarrassed by certain difficulties, and the Presence of 
Our Lord’s Body in the Host seemed to me no more ob- 
scure a mystery than this leading house in the Faubourg, 
situated here, on the right bank of the river, and so near 
that from my bed, in the morning, I could hear its carpets 
being beaten. But the line of demarcation that separated 
me from the Faubourg Saint-Germain seemed to me all 
the more real because it was purely ideal. I felt clearly 
that it was already part of the Faubourg, when I saw the 
Guermantes doormat, spread out beyond that intangible 
Equator, of which my mother had made bold to say, hav- 
ing like myself caught a glimpse of it one day when their 
|door stood open, that it was in a shocking state. For the 
rest, how could their dining-room, their dim gallery up- 
holstered in red plush, into which I could see sometimes 
from our kitchen window, have failed to possess in my 
eyes the mysterious charm of the Faubourg Saint-Ger- 
‘main, to form part of it in an essential fashion, to be 
geographically situated within it, since to have been enter- 
tained to dinner in that room was to have gone into the 
Faubourg Saint-Germain, to have breathed its atmosphere, 
since the people who, before going to table, sat down by 
the side of Mme. de Guermantes on the leather-covered 
sofa in that gallery were all of the Faubourg Saint-Ger- 
main. No doubt elsewhere than in the Faubourg, at cer- 
tain parties, one might see now and then, majestically 
enthroned amid the vulgar herd of fashion, one of those 
‘men who were mere names and varyingly assumed, when 


31 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


one tried to form a picture of them, the aspect of a tours, 
nament or of a royal forest. But here, in the leading house 
in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, in the drawing-room, in 
the dim gallery, there were only they. They were, wrought 
of precious materials, the columns that upheld the temple, 
Indeed for quiet family parties it was from among them 
only that Mme. de Guermantes might select her guests,| 
and in the dinners for twelve, gathered around the dazzling 
napery and plate, they were like the golden statues of the 
Apostles in the Sainte-Chapelle, symbolic, consecrative pil- 
lars before the Holy Table. As for the tiny strip of garden 
that stretched between high walls at the back of the house, 
where on summer evenings Mme. de Guermantes had) 
liqueurs and orangeade brought out after dinner, how 
could I not have felt that to sit there of an evening, be- 
tween nine and eleven, on its iron chairs—endowed with 
a magic as potent as the leathern sofa—without inhaling 
the breezes peculiar to the Faubourg Saint-Germain was 
as impossible as to take a siesta in the oasis of Figuig 
without thereby being necessarily in Africa. Only i imagi- 
nation and belief can differentiate from the rest certain 
objects, certain people, and can create an atmosphere, 
Alas, those picturesque sités, those natural accidents, those 
local curiosities, those works of art of the Faubourg Saint-#f 
Germain, never probably should I be permitted to set myf} 
feet among them. And I must content myself with a 
shiver of excitement as I sighted, from the deep sea (and 
without the least hope of ever landing there) like an out- 
standing minaret, like the first palm, like the first signs 
of some exotic industry or vegetation, the well-trodden 
doormat of its shore. 

But if the Hotel de Guermantes began for me at its 


32 


| 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


all-door, its dependencies must be regarded as extending 
long way farther, according to the Duke, who, looking \ 
n all the other tenants as farmers, peasants, purchasers 
f forfeited estates, whose opinion was of no account, 
haved himself every morning in his nightshirt at the win- 
low, came down into the courtyard, according to the 
varmth or coldness of the day, in his shirt-sleeves, in 
"yjamas, in a plaid coat of startling colours, with a shaggy 
tap, in little light-coloured covert coats shorter than the 
ackets beneath, and made one of his grooms lead past 
lim at a trot some horse that he had just been buying. 
Vlore than once, indeed, the horse broke the window of 
‘upien’s shop, whereupon Jupien, to the Duke’s indigna- 
ion, demanded compensation. “If it were only in con- 
ideration of all the good that Madame la Duchesse does 
n the house, here, and in the parish,” said M. de Guer- 
mantes, “it is an outrage on this fellow’s part to claim a 
venny from us.” But Jupien had stuck to his point, ap- 
varently not having the faintest idea what “gocd” the 
Duchess had ever done. And yet she did do good, but— 
‘imce one cannot do good to everybody at once—the mem- 
wy of the benefits that we have heaped on one person is 
1 valid reason for our abstaining from helping another, 
vhose discontent we thereby make all the stronger. From 
ther points of view than that of charity the quarter ap- 
yeared to the Duke—and this over a considerable area— 
0 be only an extension of his courtyard, a longer track 
or his horses. After seeing how a new acquisition trotted 
ny itself he would have it harnessed and taken through 
ll the neighbouring streets, the groom running beside the 
atriage holding the reins, making it pass to and fro be- 
ore the Duke who stood on the pavement, erect, gigantic, 


I ae c 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


enormous in his vivid clothes, a cigar between his teeth, 
his head in the air, his eyeglass scrutinous, until the mo- 
ment when he sprang on to the box, drove the horse up 
and down for a little to try it, then set off with his neff 
turn-out to pick up his mistress in the Champs-Elysées, 
M. de Guermantes bade good day, before leaving the 
courtyard, to two couples who belonged more or less to 
his world; the first, some cousins of his who, like working- 
class parents, were never at home to look after their chil- 
dren, since every morning the wife went off to the Schola 
to study counterpoint and fugue, and the husband to his 
studio to carve wood and beat leather; and after them the 
Baron and Baronne de Norpois, always dressed in black, 
she like a pew-opener and he like a mute at a funeral, 
who emerged several times daily on their way to church, 
They were the nephew and niece of the old Ambassador 
who was our friend, and whom my father had, in fact, 
met at the foot of the staircase without realising from 
where he came; for my father supposed that so important 
a personage, one who had come in contact with the most 
/ eminent men in Europe and was probably quite indifferent 
to the empty distinctions of rank, was hardly likely te 
frequent the society of these obscure, clerical and narrow: 
minded nobles. They had not been long in the place; 
Jupien, who had come out into the courtyard to say a 
word to the husband just as he was greeting M. de Guer- 
mantes, called him “M. Norpois,” not being certain o 
his name. 

“Monsieur Norpois, indeed! Oh, that really is good! 
Just wait a little! This individual will be calling you Com- 
rade Norpois next!” exclaimed M. de Guermantes, turn: 
ing to the Baron. He was at last able to vent his spleen 


34 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


igainst Jupien who addressed him as.“ Monsieur,” in- 
tead of “ Monsieur le Duc.” 

_ One day when M. de Guermantes required some in- 
ormation upon a matter of which my father had pro- 
essional knowledge, he had introduced himself to him 
vith great courtesy. After that, he had often some neigh- 
yourly service to ask of my father and, as soon as he saw 
iim begin to come downstairs, his mind occupied with 
lis work and anxious to avoid any interruption, the 
Juke, leaving his stable-boys, would come up to him in 
he courtyard, straighten the collar of his great-coat, with 
he serviceable deftness inherited from a line of royal 
»ody-servants in days gone by, take him by the hand, and, 
olding it in his own, patting it even to prove to my father, 
vith a courtesan’s or courtier’s shamelessness, that he, 
he Duc de Guermantes, made no bargain about my 
ather’s right to the privilege of contact with the ducal 
cesh, lead him, so to speak, on leash, extremely annoyed 
nd thinking only how he might escape, through the car- 
iage entrance out into the street. He had given us a 
weeping bow one day when we had come in just as he 
as going out in the carriage with his wife; he was bound 
9 have told her my name; but what likelihood was there 
f her remembering it, or my face either? And besides, 
that a feeble recommendation to be pointed out simply 
s being one of her tenants! Another, more valuable, 
yould have been my meeting the Duchess in the drawing- 
oom of Mme. de Villeparisis, who, as it happened, had 
4st sent word by my grandmother that I was to go and 
2e her, and, remembering that I had been intending to 
o in for literature, had added that I should meet several 
uthors there. But my father felt that I was still a little 


35 


| 
REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST | 


young to go into society, and as the state of my health 
continued to give him uneasiness he did not see the use 
of establishing precedents that would do me no good. : 
As one of Mme. de Guermantes’s footmen was in the 
habit of talking to Francoise, I picked up the names of 
several of the houses which she frequented, but formed 
no impression of any of them; from the moment in which 
they were a part of her life, of that life which I saw only 
through the veil of her name, were they not inconceivable! 
To- -night there’s a big party with a Chinese shadow 
show at the Princesse de Parme’s,” said the footman, 
“but we shan’t be going, because at five o’clock Madame 
is taking the train to Chantilly, to spend a few days witk 
the Duc d’Aumale; but it’ll be the lady’s maid and vale 
that are going with her. I’m to stay here. She won’t be 
at all pleased, the Princesse de Parme won’t, that’s foul 
times already she’s written to Madame la Duchesse.” 
“Then you won’t be going down to Guermantes Castk 
this year?” 
“It’s the first time we shan’t be going there: it’s be 
cause of the Duke’s rheumatics, the doctor says he’s no 
to go there till the hot pipes are in, but we’ve been ther 
every year till now, right on to January. If the hot pipe 
aren't ready, perhaps Madame will go for a few days 
Cannes, to the Duchesse de Guise, but nothing’s settlec 
yet.” | 
“And to the theatre, do you go, sometimes? ” 
“We go now and then to the Opéra, usually on thi 
evenings when the Princesse de Parme has her box, that’ 
once a week; it seems it’s a fine show they give there 
plays, operas, everything. Madame refused to subscrib 
to it herself, but we go all the same to the boxes Madame’ 
36 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


riends take, one one night, another another, often with 
he Princesse de Guermantes, the Duke’s cousin’s lady. 
he’s sister to the Duke of Bavaria. And so you've got to 
un upstairs again now, have you?” went on the footman, 
tho, albeit identified with the Guermantes, looked upon 
aasters in general as a political estate, a view which al- 
awed him to treat Francoise with as much respect as if 
he too were in service with a duchess. “ You enjoy good 
ealth, ma’am.” 
“Oh, if it wasn’t for these cursed legs of mine! On the 
lain I can still get along” (“on the plain” meant in the 
ourtyard or in the streets, where Francoise had no objec- 
on to walking, in other words “on a plane surface’) 
but it’s these stairs that do me in, devil take them. 
ood day to you, sir, see you again, perhaps, this evening.” 
She was all the more anxious to continue her conversa- 
ons with the footman after he mentioned to her that the 
ms of dukes often bore a princely title which they re- 
uned until their fathers were dead. Evidently the cult 
' the nobility, blended with and accommodating itself to 
certain spirit of revolt against it, must, springing heredi- 
ily from the soil of France, be very strongly implanted 
ill in her people. For Francoise, to whom you might 
'eak of the genius of Napoleon or of wireless telegraphy 
ithout succeeding in attracting her attention, and with- 
git her slackening for an instant the movements with 
Raich she was scraping the ashes from the grate or lay- 
g the table, if she were simply to be told these idiosyn- 
asies of nomenclature, and that the younger son of the 
luc de Guermantes was generally called Prince d’Oléron, 
ould at once exclaim: “ That’s fine, that is!” and stand 
ere dazed, as though in contemplation of a stained win- 


37 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


dow in church. 

Francoise learned also from the Prince Agrigente’ 
valet, who had become friends with her by coming ofter 
to the house with notes for the Duchess, that he had beer 
hearing a great deal of talk in society about the marriags 
of the Marquis de Saint-Loup to Mlle. d’Ambresac, anc 
that it was practically settled. 

That villa, that opera-box, into which Mme. de Gued 
mantes transfused the current of her life, must, it seeme¢ 
to me, be places no less fairylike than her home. Th 
names of Guise, of Parme, of Guermantes-Baviere, dif 
ferentiated from all possible others the holiday places t 
which the Duchess resorted, the daily festivities which thi 
track of her bowling wheels bound, as with ribbons, to he 
mansion. If they told me that in those holidays, in thos 
festivities, consisted serially the life of Mme. de Gue 
mantes, they brought no further light to bear on it. Eac 
of them gave to the life of the Duchess a different deter 
mination, but succeeded only in changing the mystery o 
it, without allowing to escape any of its own myster 
which simply floated, protected by a covering, enclose 
in a bell, through the tide of the life of all the world. Thj 
Duchess might take her luncheon on the shore of th 
Mediterranean at Carnival time, but, in the villa of Mme 
de Guise, where the queen of Parisian society was nothin} 
more, in her white linen dress, among numberless prin} 
cesses, than a guest like any of the rest, and on that ac 
count more moving still to me, more herself by bein 
thus made new, like a star of the ballet who in the fan 
tastic course of a figure takes the place of each of he 
humbler sisters in succession; she might look at Chine 
shadow shows, but at a party given by the Princesse d 

38 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


arme, listen to tragedy or opera, but from the box of 
ae Princesse de Guermantes. 

As we localise in the body of a person all the poten- 
falities of that person’s life, our recollections of the people 
e knows and has just left or is on his way to meet, if, 
aving learned from Frangoise that Mme. de Guermantes 
as going on foot to luncheon with the Princesse de 
arme, I saw her, about midday, emerge from her house 
.a gown of flesh coloured satin over which her face was 
‘the same shade, like a cloud that rises above the setting 
in, it was all the pleasures of the Faubourg Saint-Ger- 
ain that I saw before me, contained in that small com- 
ass, as in a shell, between its twin valves that glowed 
ith roseate nacre. 

‘My father had a friend at the Ministry, one A. J. 
foreau, who, to distinguish him from the other Moreaus, 
vok care always to prefix both initials to his name, with 
1e result that people called him, for short, “A. J.” Well, 
mehow or other, this A. J. found himself entitled to a 
all at the Opéra-Comique on a gala night; he sent the 
cket to my father, and as Berma, whom I had not been 
gain to see since my first disappointment, was to give 
1act of Phédre, my grandmother persuaded my father 
4 pass it on to me. 

'To tell the truth, I attached no importance to this pos- 
bility of hearing Berma which, a few years earlier, had 
‘unged me in such a state of agitation. And it was not 
ithout a sense of melancholy that I realised the fact of 
y indifference to what at one time I had put before 
ealth, comfort, everything. It was not that there had 
sen any slackening of my desire for an opportunity to 
mtemplate close at hand the precious particles of reality 


39 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


of which my imagination caught a broken glimpse. But 
my imagination no longer placed these in the diction of 2 
great actress; since my visits to Elstir, it was on certain 
tapestries, certain modern paintings that I had brought te 
bear the inner faith I had once had in this acting, in this 
tragic art of Berma; my faith, my desire, no longer coming 
forward to pay incessant worship to the diction, the att 
tudes of Berma, the counterpart that I possessed of them 
in my heart had gradually perished, like those other coun 
terparts of the dead in ancient Egypt which had to be fe¢ 
continually in order to maintain their originals in eterna 
life. This art had become a feeble, tawdry thing. No deep 
lying soul inhabited it any more. 

That evening, as, armed with the ticket my father hac 
received from his friend, I was climbing the grand stair 
case of the Opera, I saw in front of me a man whom | 
took at first for M. de Charlus, whose bearing he had: 
when he turned his head to ask some question of one o 
the staff I saw that I had been mistaken, but I had ne 
hesitation in placing the stranger in the same class 0 
society, from the way not only in which he was dresse¢ 
but in which he spoke to the man who took the ticket 
and to the box-openers who were keeping him waiting 
For, apart from personal details of similarity, there wai 
still at this period between any smart and wealthy mai 
of that section of the nobility and any smart and wealthy 
man of the world of finance or “ big business” a strongh 
marked difference. Where one of the latter would hay 
thought he was giving proof of his exclusiveness by 
adopting a sharp, haughty tone in speaking to an inferiot 
the great gentleman, affable, pleasant, smiling, had th 
air of considering, practising an affectation of humilit 


40 


Rel WD ne eae 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


nd patience, a pretence of being just one of the audience, 
Sa privilege of his good breeding. It is quite likely that, 
n seeing him thus Rereribik behind a smile overflowing 
vith good nature the barred threshold of the little world 
part which he carried in his person, more than one 
vealthy banker’s son, entering the theatre at that mo- 
rent, would have taken this great gentleman for a person 
f no importance if he had not remarked in him an aston- 
shing resemblance to the portrait that had recently ap- 
eared in the illustrated papers of a nephew of the Aus- 
jan Emperor, the Prince of Saxony, who happened to be 
1 Paris at the time. I knew him to be a great friend of 
ae Guermantes. As I reached the attendant I heard 
ie Prince of Saxony (or his double) say with a smile: 
I don’t know the number; it was my cousin who told 
te I had only to ask for inet box.” 

He may well have been the Prince of Saxony; it was 
ethaps of the Duchesse de Guermantes (whom, in that 
rent, I should be able to watch in the process of living 
ye of those moments of her unimaginable life in her 
vusin’s box) that his eyes formed a mental picture when 
2 referred to “ my cousin who told me I had only to ask 
her box,” so much so that that smiling gaze peculiar 
himself, those so simple words caressed my heart (far 
ore gently than would any abstract meditation) with 
e alternative feelers of a possible happiness and a vague 
stinction. Whatever he was, in uttering this sentence to 
€ attendant he grafted upon a commonplace evening 
‘My everyday life a potential outlet into a new world; 
passage to which he was directed after mentioning 
e word “box” and along which he now proceeded was 
dist and mildewed and seemed to lead to subaqueous 


41 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


grottoes, to the mythical kingdom of the water-nymphs, 
I had before me a gentleman in evening dress who was 
walking away from me, but I kept playing upon and 
round him, as with a badly fitting reflector on a lamp, and 
without ever succeeding in making it actually coincide witl 
him, the idea that he was the Prince of Saxony and was 
on his way to join the Duchesse de Guermantes. And, 
for all that he was alone, that idea, external to himself, 
impalpable, immense, unstable as the shadow projected: by 
a magic lantern, seemed to precede and guide him like 
that deity, invisible to the rest of mankind, who stands 
beside the Greek warrior in the hour of battle. 

I took my seat, striving all the time to recapture ¢ 
line from Phédre which I could not quite remember. Ir 
the form in which I repeated it to myself it had not the 
right number of feet, but as I made no attempt to coun 
them, between its unwieldiness and a classical line o 
poetry it seemed as though no common measure coulc¢ 
exist. It would not have surprised me to learn that I mus 
subtract at least half a dozen syllables from that por 
tentous phrase to reduce it to alexandrine dimensions 
But suddenly I remembered it, the irremediable asperitie 
of an inhuman world vanished as if by magic; the syllable 
of the line at once filled up the requisite measure, wha 
there was in excess floated off with the ease, the dexterit 
of a bubble of air that rises to burst on the water’s brink 
And, after all, this excrescence with which I had beel 
struggling consisted of but a single foot. 

A certain number of orchestra stalls had been offerd 
for sale at the box office and bought, out of snobbishnes 
or curiosity, by such as wished to study the appearance @ 
people whom they might not have another opportunit 


42 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


seeing at close quarters. And it was indeed a fragment 
their true social life, ordinarily kept secret, that one 
vuld examine here in public, for, the Princesse de Parme 
iving herself distributed among her friends the seats in 
alls, balconies and boxes, the house was like a drawing- 
yom in which everyone changed his place, went to sit 
sre or there wherever he caught sight of a woman whom 
knew. 
Next to me were some common people who, not know- 
g the regular subscribers, were anxious to shew that 
ey were capable of identifying them and named them 
oud. They went on to remark that these subscribers 
shaved there as though they were in their own drawing- 
»oms, meaning that they paid no attention to what was 
zing played. Which was the exact opposite of what did 
ippen. A budding genius who has taken a stall in order 
» hear Berma thinks only of not soiling his gloves, of not 
sturbing, of making friends with the neighbour whom 
1ance has put beside him, of pursuing with an inter- 
ittent smile the fugitive—avoiding with apparent want 
‘ politeness the intercepted gaze of a person of his ac- 
aaintance whom he has discovered in the audience and 
» whom, after a thousand indecisions, he makes up his 
ind to go and talk just as the three hammer-blows from 
ie stage, sounding before he has had time to reach his 
jend, force him to take flight, like the Hebrews in the 
ed Sea, through a heaving tide of spectators and 
ectatresses whom he has obliged to rise and whose 
resses he tears as he passes, or tramples on their boots. 
im the other hand it was because the society people sat 
t their boxes (behind the general terrace of the balcony, 
3 in so many little drawing-rooms, the fourth walls of 


43 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


which had been removed, or in so many little cafés, 1 
which one might go for refreshment, without letting ones 
be intimidated by the mirrors in gilt frames or the re 
plush seats, in the Neapolitan style, of the establishment 
it was because they rested an indifferent hand on tl 
gilded shafts of the columns which upheld this temple | 
the lyric art, it was because they remained unmoved } 
the extravagant honours which seemed to be being pa 
them by a pair of carved figures which held out towar 
the boxes branches of palm and laurel, that they and th 
only would have had minds free to listen to the playg 
only they had had minds. 

At first there was nothing visible but vague shadows, |} 
which one suddenly peercleaaaee the gleam of a precio] 
stone which one cannot see—the phosphorescence of 
pair of famous eyes, or, like a medallion of Henri IV 
a dark background, the bent profile of the Duc d’Aumallf 
to whom an invisible lady was exclaiming “ Monseignei 
must allow me to take his coat,” to which the Prim 
replied, “Oh, come, come! Really, Madame d’Ambr 
sac,’ She took it, in spite of this vague prohibition, at 
was envied by all the rest her being thus honoured. 

But in the other boxes, everywhere almost, the whi 
deities who inhabited those sombre abodes had flown f 
shelter against their shadowy walls and remained i 
visible. Gradually, however, as the performance went 0 
their vaguely human forms detached themselves, one t 
one, from the shades of night which they patterned, an 
raising themselves towards the light, allowed their se 
nude bodies to emerge, and rose, and stopped at the lim 
of their course, at the luminous, shaded surface on whit 
their brillant faces appeared behind the gaily breakir 


44 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


oam of the feather fans they unfurled and lightly waved, 
yeneath their hyacinthine locks begemmed with pearls, 
which the flow of the tide seemed to have caught and 
drawn with it; this side of them, began the orchestra 
talls, abode of mortals for ever separated from the trans- 
yarent, shadowy realm to which, at points here and there, 
jerved as boundaries, on its brimming surface, the limpid, 
mirroring eyes of the water-nymphs. For the folding 
seats on its shore, the forms of the monsters in the stalls 
\were painted upon the surface of those eyes in simple 
obedience to the laws of optics and according to their 
ingle of incidence, as happens with those two sections of 
‘xternal reality to which, knowing that they do not possess 
any soul, however rudimentary, that can be considered 
4s analogous to our own, we should think ourselves mad 
jf we addressed a smile or a glance of recognition: namely, 
minerals and people to whom we have not been in- 
jroduced. Beyond this boundary, withdrawing from the 
‘imit of their domain, the radiant daughters of the sea 
sept turning at every moment to smile up at the bearded 
jritons who clung to the anfractuosities of the cliff, or 
owards some aquatic. demi-god, whose head was a 
polished stone to which the tides had borne a smooth 
overing of seaweed, and his gaze a disc of rock crystal. 
(They leaned towards these creatures, offering them sweet- 
heats; sometimes the flood parted to admit a fresh Nereid 
who, belated, smiling, apologetic, had just floated into 
lossom out of the shadowy depths; then, the act ended, 
laving no further hope of hearing the melodious sounds 
yf earth which had drawn them to the surface, plunging 
»ack all in a moment the several sisters vanished into the 
light. But of all these retreats, to the thresholds of which 


45 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


their mild desire to behold the works of man brought the 
curious goddesses who let none approach them, the most 
famous was the cube of semi-darkness known to the 
world as the stage box of the Princesse de Guermantes. 
Like a mighty goddess who presides from far aloft ovet 
the sports of lesser deities, the Princess had deliberately 
remained a little way back on a sofa placed sideways i | 
the box, red as a reef of coral, beside a big, glassy splask 
of reflexion which was probably a mirror and made one 
think of the section cut by a ray of sunlight, vertical, clear 
liquid, through the flashing crystal of the sea. At once 
plume and blossom, like certain subaqueous growths 
a great white flower, downy as the wing of a bird, fel 
from the brow of the Princess along one of her cheeks 
the curve of which it followed with a pliancy, coquettish 
amorous, alive, and seemed almost to enfold it like a rosy 
egg in the softness of a halcyon’s nest. Over her hair 
reaching in front to her eyebrows and caught back lowe: 
down at the level of her throat, was spread a net upot 
which those little white shells which are gathered on som) 
shore of the South Seas alternated with pearls, a marin 
mosaic barely emerging from the waves and at every moll 
ment plunged back again into a darkness in the depths off 
which even then a human presence was revealed by thi 
ubiquitous flashing of the Princess’s eyes. The beaut] 
which set her far above all the other fabulous daughters o | 
the dusk was not altogether materially and comprehen 
sively inscribed on her neck, her shoulders, her arms, hel} 
figure. But the exquisite, unfinished line of the last wa 
the exact starting point, the inevitable focus of invisibll] 
lines which the eye could not help prolonging, marvellou | 
lines, springing into life round the woman like the speci 
46 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 

rum of an ideal form projected upon the screen of 
larkness. 

' “That’s the Princesse de Guermantes,” said my neigh- 
your to the gentleman beside her, taking care to begin 
he word “ Princesse” with a string of ‘P’s, to shew that 
. title like that was absurd. “She hasn’t been sparing 
vith her pearls. I’m sure, if I had as many as that, I 
vouldn’t make such a display of them; it doesn’t look at 
ill well, not to my mind.” 

| And yet, when they caught sight of the Princess, all 
‘hose who were looking round to see who was in the 
vudience felt springing up for her in their hearts the right- 
ul throne of beauty. Indeed, with the Duchesse de 
uuxembourg, with Mme. de Morienval, with Mme. de 
jainte-Euverte, and any number of others, what enabled 
me to ety their faces would be the juxtaposition of 
; big red nose to a hare-lip, or of a pair of wrinkled 
‘heeks to a faint moustache. These features were never- 
theless sufficient in themselves to attract the eye, since 
having merely the conventional value of a written docu- 
ment they gave one to read a famous and impressive 
1ame; but also they gave one, cumulatively, the idea that 
igliness had about it something aristocratic, and that it 
vas unnecessary that the face of a great lady, provided 
it was distinguished, should be beautiful as well. But like 
ertain artists who, instead of the letters of their names, 
‘et at the foot of their canvas a form that is beautiful in 
tself, a butterfly, a lizard, a flower, so it was the form of 
. delicious face and figure that the Princess had put in 
he corner of her box, thereby shewing that beauty can 
’e the noblest of signatures; for the presence there of 
Aime. de Guermantes-Baviere, who brought to the theatre 


47 


| 
if 
Hb 


¥ 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


only such persons as at other times formed part of her 
intimate circle, was in the eyes of specialists in aristocracy 
the best possible certificate of the authenticity of the 
picture which her box presented, a sort of evocation of 
a scene in the ordinary private life of the Princess in her 
palaces in Munich and in Paris. | 

Our imagination being like a barrel organ out of order, 
which always plays some other tune than that shewn on 
its card, every time that I had heard any mention of the 
Princesse de Guermantes-Baviere, a recollection of certain 
sixteenth century masterpieces had begun singing in my 
brain. I was obliged to rid myself quickly of this associa. 
tion, now that I saw her engaged in offering crystallised 
fruit to a stout gentleman in a swallowtail coat. Certainly 
I was very far from the conclusion that she and her guests 
were mere human beings like the rest of the audience, 
I understood that what they were doing there was all only 
a game, and that as a prelude to the acts of their real life 
(of which, presumably, this was not where they spent the 
important part) they had arranged, in obedience to a 
ritual unknown to me, they were feigning to offer and 
decline sweetmeats, a gesture robbed of its ordinary sig: 
nificance and regulated beforehand like the step of @ 
dancer who alternately raises herself on her toes and 
circles about an upheld scarf. For all I knew, perhaps at 
the moment of offering him her sweetmeats the goddess 
was saying, with that note of irony in her voice (for ] 
saw her smile): “ Do have one, won’t you?” What mat 
tered that to me? I should have found a delicious refine: 
ment in the deliberate dryness, in the style of Mérimée of] 
Meilhac, of such words addressed by a goddess to al 
demi-god who, conscious himself what were the sublime 


48 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


joughts which they both had in their minds, in reserve, 
oubtless, until the moment when they would begin again 
» live their true life, consenting to join in the game, 
rag answering with the same mysterious bitterness: 
Thanks; I should like a cherry.” And I should have 
stened to this dialogue with the same avidity as to a 
sene from Le Mari de la Débutante, where the absence 
f poetry, of lofty thoughts, things so familiar to me 
hich, I suppose, Meilhac could easily, had he chosen, 
ave put into it a thousand times over, seemed to me in 
self a refinement, a conventional refinement and there- 
wre all the more mysterious and instructive. 
“That fat fellow is the Marquis de Ganangay,” came 
f a knowing tone from the man next to me, who had not 
uite caught the name whispered in the row behind. 
|The Marquis de Palancy, his face bent downwards at 
1e end of his long neck, his round bulging eye glued to 
ie glass of his monocle, was moving with a leisurely dis- 
lacement through the transparent shade and appeared 
2 more to see the public in the stalls than a fish that 
rifts past, unconscious of the press of curious gazers, 
zhind the glass wall of an aquarium. Now and again he 
aused, a venerable, wheezing monument, and the audi- 
ice could not have told whether he was in pain, asleep, 
vimming, about to spawn, or merely taking breath. No 
re else aroused in me so much envy as he, on account 
his apparent familiarity with this box and the indif- 
rence with which he allowed the Princess to hold out 
1 him her box of sweetmeats; throwing him, at the same 
me, a glance from her fine eyes, cut in a pair of diamonds 
hich at such moments wit and friendliness seemed to 
juefy, whereas, when they were at rest, reduced to 


he 49 D 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


their purely material beauty, to their mineral brilliane 
alone, if the least reflected flash disturbed them ever s§) 
slightly, they set the darkness ablaze with inhuma 
horizontal splendid fires. But now, because the act ¢ 
Phédre in which Berma was playing was due to start 
the Princess came to the front of the box; whereupor 
as if she herself were a theatrical production, in the zon 
of light which she traversed, I saw not only the colou 
but the material of her adornments change. And in thi 
box, dry now, emerging, a part no longer of the water 
realm, the Princess, ceasing to be a Nereid, appeared tu 
banned in white and blue like some marvellous tragi 
actress dressed for the part of Zaire, or perhaps of Oreos 
mane; finally, when she had taken her place in the fror 
row I saw that the soft halcyon’s nest which tenderl 
shielded the rosy nacre of her cheeks was—down) 
dazzling, velvety, an immense bird of paradise. 
But now my gaze was diverted from the Princesse ¢ 
Guermante’s box by a little woman who came in, il 
dressed, plain, her eyes ablaze with indignation, follow 
by two young men, and sat down a few places from m 
At length the curtain went up. I could not help beir 
saddened by the reflexion that there remained now f 
trace of my old disposition, at the period when, so as 1 
miss nothing of the extraordinary phenomenon which 
would have gone to the ends of the earth to see, I ke 
my mind prepared, like the sensitive plates which astro 
omers take out to Africa, to the West Indies, to mali 
and record an exact observation of a comet or an eclips#f 
when I trembled for fear lest some cloud (a fit of | 
humour on the artist’s part or an incident in the audience 
should prevent the spectacle from presenting itself wil}; 
50 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


he maximum of intensity; when I should not have be- 
veved that I was watching it in the most perfect condi- 
ions had I not gone to the very theatre which was con- 
ecrated to it like an altar, in which I then felt to be 
till a part of it, though an accessory part only, the 
fficials with their white carnations, appointed by her, 
he vaulted balcony covering a pit filled with a shabbily 
jressed crowd, the women selling programmes that had 
‘er photograph, the chestnut trees in the square outside, 
ll those companions, those confidants of my impressions 
f those days which seemed to me to be inseparable from 
nem. Phédre, the “ Declaration Scene ”, Berma, had had 
nen for me a sort of absolute existence. Standing aloof 
om the world of current experience they existed by 
nemselves, I must go to meet them, I should penetrate 
that I could of them, and if I opened my eyes and soul 
) their fullest extent I should still absorb but a very 
ttle of them. But how pleasant life seemed to me: the 
‘iviality of the form of it that I myself was leading 
tattered nothing, no more than the time we spend on 
ressing, on getting ready to go out, since, transcending it, 
lere existed in an absolute form, good and difficult to 
pproach, impossible to possess in their entirety, those 
tore solid realities, Phédre and the way in which Berma 
ooke her part. Steeped in these dreams of perfection in 
ae dramatic art (a strong dose of which anyone who 
ad at that time subjected my mind to analysis at any 
‘coment of the day or even the night would have been 
dle to prepare from it), I was like a battery that ac- 
imulates and stores up electricity. And a time had come 
hen, ill as I was, even if I had believed that I should 
of it, I should still have been compelled to go and 


51 


—— 


—— 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


hear Berma. But now, like a hill which from a distance 
seems a patch of azure sky, but, as we draw nearer, 
returns to its place in our ordinary field of vision, all 
this had left the world of the absolute and was no 
more than a thing like other things, of which I took 
cognisance because I was there, the actors: were people 
of the same substance as the people I knew, trying to 
speak in the best possible way these lines of Phedre, 
which themselves no longer formed a sublime and indi 
vidual essence, distinct from everything else, but wer 
simply more or less effective lines ready to slip back inte 
the vast corpus of French poetry, of which they were 
merely a part. I felt a discouragement that was all the 
more profound in that, if the object of my headstrong 
and active desire no longer existed, the same tendencies 
on the other hand, to indulge in a perpetual dream, whiel 
varied from year to year but led me always to sudder 
impulses, regardless of danger, still persisted. The day 
on which I rose from my bed of sickness and set out t 
see, in some country house or other, a picture by Elsti 
or a mediaeval tapestry, was so like the day on whiel 
I ought to have started for Venice, or that on which I di 
go to hear Berma, or start for Balbec, that I felt befor 
going that the immediate object of my sacrifice woul¢ 
after a little while, leave me cold, that then I might pas 
close by the place without stopping even to look at tha 
picture, those tapestries for which I would at this momen 
risk so many sleepless nights, so many hours of pain. 

discerned in the instability of its object the vanity of m 
effort, and at the same time its vastness, which I had ne 
before noticed, like a neurasthenic whose exhaustion W 
double by pointing out to him that he is exhausted. I 


52 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


the mean time my musings gave a distinction to every- 
hing that had any connexion with them. And even in 
ay most carnal desires, magnetised always in a certain 
irection, concentrated about a single dream, I might have 
ecognised as their primary motive an idea, an idea for 
yhich I would have laid down my life, at the,innermost 
ore of which, as in my day dreams while I sat reading all 
fternoon in the garden at Combray, lay the thought of 
erfection. 

| Ino longer felt the same indulgence as on the former 
pcasion towards the deliberate expressions of affection or 
ager which I had then remarked in the delivery and 
estures of Aricie, Isméne and Hippolyte. It was not that 
ie players—they were the same, by the way—did not 
ull seek, with the same intelligent application, to impart 
pW a caressing inflexion, or a calculated ambiguity to 
Keir Voices, now a tragic amplitude, or a suppliant meek- 
ss to their movements. ‘Their ‘intonations bade the 
pice: “Be gentle, sing like a nightingale, caress and 
100”; or else, “now wax furious,” and then hurled 
jemselves upon it, trying to carry it off with them in 
eir frenzied rush. But it, mutinous, independent of their 
iction, remained unalterably their natural voice with its 
aterial defects or charms, its everyday vulgarity or 
fectation, and thus presented a sum-total of acoustic or 
cial phenomena which the sentiment contained in the 
ues they were repeating was powerless to alter, 
Similarly the gestures of the players said to their arms, 
their garments: “ Be majestic.” But each of these un- 
bmissive members allowed to flaunt itself between 
sulder and elbow a biceps which knew nothing of the 
ft; they continued to express the triviality of everyday 


53 


“2 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


life and to bring into prominence, instead of fine shade 
of Racinian meaning, mere muscular attachments; and th 
draperies which they held up fell back again along vertica 
lines in which the natural law that governs falling bodie 
was challenged only by an insipid textile pliancy. At thi 
point the little woman who was sitting near me exclaimed 

“Not a“hand! Did you ever see such a get-up? She’ 
too old; she can’t play the part; she ought to have retire 
ages ago.” | 

Amid a sibilant protest from their neighbours the tw 
young men with her succeeded in making her keep quit 
and her fury raged now only in her eyes. This fury couk 
moreover, be prompted only by the thought of succes 
of fame, for Berma, who had earned so much money, we 
overwhelmed with debts. Since she was always makin 
business or social appointments which she was prevente 
from keeping, she had messengers flying with apologi 
along every street in Paris, and what with rooms in hote 
which she would never occupy engaged in advance, oceal 
of scent to bathe her dogs, heavy penalties for breachij 
of contract with all her managers, failing any more serioly 
expense and being not so voluptuous as Cleopatra, sl 
would have found the means of squandering on telegran 
- and jobmasters provinces and kingdoms. But the litt 
woman was an actress who had never tasted success, al 
had vowed a deadly hatred against Berma. The latter hi 
just come on to the stage. And then—oh, the miracle 
like those lessons which we laboured in vain to leai 
overnight, and find intact, got by heart, on waking } 
next morning, like, too, those faces of dead friends whi 
the impassioned efforts of our memory pursue witho 
recapturing them, and which, when we are no long 


54 


se 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


hinking of them, are there before our eyes just as they 
vere in life—the talent of Berma, which had evaded me 
rhen I sought so greedily to seize its essential quality, 
cow, after these years of oblivion, in this hour of indif- 
erence, imposed itself, with all the force of a thing directly 
een, on my admiration. Formerly, in my ‘attempts to 
jolate. the talent, I deducted, so to speak, from what I 
eard the part itself, a part common to all the actresses 
rho appeared as Phédre, which I had myself studied be- 
orehand so that I might be capable of subtracting it, of 
sceiving in the strained residue only the talent ne Mme. 
verma. | But this talent which I sought to discover outside 
ae part itself was indissolubly one with it. So with a 
reat musician (it appears that this was the case with 
inteuil when he played the piano), his playing is that 
f so fine a pianist that one cannot even be certain 
yhether the performer is a pianist at all, since (not inter- 
osing all that mechanism of muscular effort, crowned 
ere and there with brilliant effects, all that spattering 
ht of notes in which at least the listener who does 
ot quite know where he is thinks that he can discern 
ent in its material, tangible objectivity) his playing is 
*come so transparent, so full of what he is interpreting, 
iat himself one no longer sees and he is nothing now but 
window opening upon a great work of art. The inten- 
ons which surrounded, like a majestic or delicate border, 
le voice and mimicry of Aricie, Isméne or Hippolyte I 
ad been able to distinguish, but Phédre had taken hers 
to herself, and my mind had not succeeded in wresting 
om her diction and attitudes, in apprehending in the 
Aserly simplicity of their unbroken surfaces those 
easures, those effects of which no sign emerged, so 


55 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 2 


completely had they been absorbed. Berma’s voice, it 
which not one atom of lifeless matter refractory to th 
mind remained undissolved, did not allow any sign t 
be discernible around it of that overflow of tears whiel 
one could feel, because they had not been able to absort 
it in themselves, trickling over the marble voice of Aricu 
or Isméne, but had been brought to an exquisite perfec 
tion in each of its tiniest cells like the instrument of ¢ 
master violinist, in whom one means, when one says tha 
‘his music has a fine sound, to praise not a physical peculi 
arity but a superiority of soul; and, as in the classica 
landscape where in the place of a vanished nymph ther 
is an inanimate waterspring, a clear and concrete inten 
tion had been transformed into a certain quality of tone 
strangely, appropriately, coldly limpid. Berma’s arms 
which the lines themselves, by the same dynamic fore 
that made the words issue from her lips, seemed to rais 
on to her bosom like leaves disturbed by a gush of water 
her attitude, on the stage, which she had gradually buil 
up, which she was to modify yet further, and which wa 
based upon reasonings of a different profundity from thos 
of which traces might be seen in the gestures of her fellow 
actors, but of reasonings that had lost their origing 
deliberation, and had melted into a sort of radiance i 
which they sent throbbing, round the person of th 
heroine, elements rich and complex, but which the fas 
cinated spectator took not as an artistic triumph but @ 
a natural gift; those white veils themselves, which, tenuot 
and liners seemed to be of a living aeistanee and t 
have been woven by the suffering, Heliaeecat half-Jar 
senist, around which they drew close like a frail, shrink 
ing chrysalis; all of them, voice, attitude, gestures, veil 

56 


t 
y 
om 
4 
a 


4 
oT 


: 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


yere nothing more, round this embodiment of an idea, 
rhich a line of poetry is (an embodiment that, unlike 
ur human bodies, covers the soul not with an opaque 
creen which prevents us from seeing it, but with a puri- 
ved, a quickened garment through which the soul is dif- 
used and we discover it), than additional envelopes which 
astead of concealing shewed up in greater splendour the 
oul that had assimilated them to itself and had spread 
self through them, than layers of different substances, 
rown translucent, the interpolation of which has the effect 
nly of causing a richer refraction of the imprisoned, 
entral ray that pierces through them, and of making 
nore extensive, more precious and more fair the matter 
urified by fire in which it is enshrined. So Berma’s in- 


as 


uickened also by the breath of genius. 

My own impression, to tell the truth, though more 
Jeasant than on the earlier occasion, was not really dif- 
erent. Only, I no longer put it to the test of a pre- 
xistent, abstract and false idea of dramatic genius, and 
‘understood now that dramatic genius was precisely this. 
t had just occurred to me that if I had not derived any 
leasure from my first hearing of Berma, it was because, 
s earlier still when I sant to meet Gilberte in the 
yhamps-Elysées, 1 had come to her with too strong a — 
esire. Between my two disappointments there was per-— 
aps not only this resemblance, but another more pro- 
gund. The impression given us by a person or a work 
or a rendering, for that matter) of marked individuality 
3 peculiar to that BORER OF work. We have eas to 
. the ideas of “beauty ”, “ breadth of style”, « pathos ” 
nd so forth which we might, failing anything better! have 


57 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


had the illusion of discovering in the commonplace shoy 
of a “correct” face or talent, but our critical spirit hai 
before it the insistent challenge of a form of which i 
_ possesses no intellectual equivalent, in which it must detec! 
_and isolate the unknown element. It hears a shrill sound 
‘an oddly interrogative intonation. It asks itself: “Is tha 
good? Is what I am feeling just now admiration? Is tha 
richness of colouring, nobility, strength?” And what an 
Swers it again is a shrill voice, a curiously questionin 
tone, the despotic impression caused by a person whon 
one does not know, wholly material, in which there is m 
room left for “breadth of interpretation”. And for thi: 
reason it is the really beautiful works that, if we lister 
to them with sincerity, must disappoint us most keenly 
because in the storehouse of our ideas there is none tha 
corresponds to an individual impression. 

This was precisely what Berma’s acting shewed me 
This was what was meant by nobility, by intelligence o 
diction. Now I could appreciate the worth of a broa 
poetical, powerful interpretation, or rather it was to thi 
that those epithets were conventionally applied, but onh 
as we give the names of Mars, Venus, Saturn to planet 
which have no place in classical mythology. We feel ii 
one world, we think, we give names to things in another 
between the two we can establish a certain correspond 
\ ence, but not bridge the interval. It was quite narrow 
this interval, this fault that I had had to cross when, tha 
afternoon on which I went first to hear Berma, havin 
strained my ears to catch every word, I had found somi 
difficulty in correlating my ideas of “nobility of inter 
pretation”, of “originality”, and had broken out iy 
applause only after a moment of unconsciousness ant 

58 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


‘as if my applause sprang not from my actual impression 
ut was connected in some way with my preconceived 
-deas, with the pleasure that I found in saying to myself: 
At last I am listening to Berma.” And the difference 
‘hat there is between a person, or a work of art which is 
narkedly individual and the idea of beauty, exists just 
4s much between what they make us feel and the idea 
df love, or of admiration. Wherefore we fail to recognise 
them. I had found no pleasure i in listening to Berma ox 
nore than, earlier still, in seeing Gilberte). I had said to 
myself: “Well, I do not admire this.” But then I was 
‘hinking only of mastering the secret of Berma’s acting, 
‘was preoccupied with that alone, I was trying to open 
ny mind as wide as possible to receive all that her acting 
‘ontained. I understood now that all this amounted to 
jothing more nor less than admiration. | 
‘ This genius of which Berma’s rendering of the part 
vas only the revelation, was it indeed the genius of 
Racine and nothing more? 

HI thought so at first. I was soon to be undeceived when 
he curtain fell on the act from Phédre, amid enthusiastic 
‘ecalls from the audience, through which the old actress, 
veside herself with rage, drawing her little body up to 
’s full height, turning sideways in her seat, stiffened the 
auscles of her face and folded her arms on her bosom 
> shew that she was not joining the others in their 
pplause, and to make more noticeable a protest which 
» her appeared sensational though it passed unperceived. 
“he piece that followed was one of those novelties which 
it one time I had expected, since they were not famous, 
') be inevitably trivial and of no general application, 
/evoid as they were of any existence outside the perform- 


ao 


. 


4 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


ance that was being given of them at the moment. But 
I had not with them as with a classic the disappointment 
of seeing the infinity and eternity of a masterpiece occupy 
no more space or time than the width of the footlights and 
the length of a performance which would finish it as 
effectively as a piece written for the occasion. Besides, 
at every fresh passage which, I felt, had appealed to the 
audience and would one day be famous, in place of the 
fame which it was prevented from having won in th 
past I added that which it would enjoy in the future, by 
a mental process the converse of that which consists it 
imagining masterpieces on the day of their first thin per 
formance, when it seemed inconceivable that a title whicl 
no one had ever heard before could one day be set, bather 
in the same mellow light, beside those of the author? 
other works. And this part would be set one day in thi 
list of her finest impersonations, next to that of Phédre 
Not that in itself it was not destitute of all literary merit 
But Berma was as sublime in one as in the other. ; 
realised then that the work of the playwright was fo 
the actress no more than the material, the nature of whi¢) 
was comparatively unimportant, for the creation of he 
ES eg of interpretation, just as the great painte 
whom I had met at Balbec, Elstir, had found the inspire 
tion for two pictures of equal merit in a school buildin 
without any character and a cathedral which was in itse 
a work of art. And as the painter dissolves houses, cart 
people, in some broad effect of light which makes them a 
alike, so Berma spread out great sheets of terror or tende: 
ness over words that were all melted together in a comm 
mould, lowered or raised to one level, which a lesser arti 
would have carefully detached from one another. N 

60 


SSS me a = = 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


‘doubt each of them had an inflexion of its own, and 
Berma’s diction did not prevent one from catching the 
rhythm of the verse. Is it not already a first element of 
‘ordered complexity, of beauty, when, on hearing a rhyme, 
that is to say something which is at once similar to and 
different from the preceding rhyme, which was prompted 
by it, but introduces the variety of a new idea, one is 
Be nscious of two systems overlapping each other, one 
antellectual, the other prosodic? But Berma at the same 
time made her words, her lines, her whole speeches even, 
flow into lakes of sound vaster than themselves, at the 
margins of which it was a joy to see them obliged to stop, 
to break off; thus it is that a poet takes pleasure in 
making hesitate for a moment at the rhyming point the 
‘word which is about to spring forth, and a composer in 
mmerging the various words of his libretto in a single 
chythm which contradicts, captures and controls ahere 
Thus into the prose sentences of the modern playwright 
‘as into the poetry of Racine Berma managed to introduce 
those vast images of grief, nobility, passion, which were 
ithe masterpieces of her own personal art, and in which she 
‘could be recognised as, in the portraits which he has 
made of different sitters, we recognise a painter. 

| I had no longer any msices as on the former occasion, 
ito be able to arrest and perpetuate Berma’s attitudes, 
pthe fine colour effect which she gave for a moment only 
n a beam of limelight which at once faded never to re- 
appear, nor to make her repeat a single line a hundred 
Btimes over. I realised that my original desire had been 
#More exacting than the intentions of the poet, the actress, 
Bthe great decorative artist who supervised her produc- 
Btions, and that that charm which floated over a line as it 
61 


| 


i 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST Ma 


was spoken, those unstable poses perpetually transformed 
into others, those successive pictures were the transient 
result, the momentary object, the changing masterpiece 
which the art of the theatre undertook to create and which 
would perish were an attempt made to fix it for all time 
by a too much enraptured listener. I did not even make 
a resolution to come back another day and hear Berma 
again. I was satisfied with her; it was when I admired 
too keenly not to be dicsppeinted by the object of my 
admiration, whether that object were Gilberte or Berma, 
that I demanded in advance, of the impression to be 
received on the morrow, the pleasure that yesterday’s 
impression had refused to afford me. Without seeking to 
analyse the joy which I had begun now to feel, and might 
perhaps have been turning to some more profitable use,’ 
I said to myself, as in the old days I might have said 
to one of my schoolfellows: “Certainly, I put Berma 
first!” not without a confused feeling that Berma’s genius 
was not, perhaps, very accurately represented by this 
affirmation of my preference, or this award to her of a 
“first” place, whatever the peace of mind that it nisi 
incidentally restore to me. 

Just as the curtain was rising on this second play I 
looked up at Mme. de Guermantes’s box. The Princess 
was in the act—by a movement that called into being an 
exquisite line which my mind pursued into the void—of 
turning her head towards the back of the box; her party 
were all standing, and also turning towards the back, and 
between the double hedge which they thus formed, with 
all the assurance, the grandeur of the goddess that she 
was, but with a strange meekness which so late an arrival, 
making every one aie get up in the middle of the pete 

62 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


ormance, blended with the white muslin in which she was 
ittired, just as an adroitly compounded air of simplicity, 
shyness and confusion tempered her triumphant smile, the 
DJuchesse de Guermantes, who had at that moment en- 
ered the box, came towards her cousin, made a profound 
obeisance to a young man with fair hair who was seated 
n the front row, and turning again towards the amphibian 
nonsters who were floating in the recesses of the cavern, 
save to these demi-gods of the Jockey Club—who at that 
noment, and among them all M. de Palancy in particular, 
vere the men whom I should most have liked to be—the 
amiliar “ good evening” of an old and intimate friend, 
m allusion to the daily sequence of her relations with 
hem during the last fifteen years. I felt the mystery, but 
ould not solve the riddle of that smiling gaze which she 
iddressed to her friends, in the azure brilliance with 
shich it glowed while she surrendered her hand to one 
ad then to another, a gaze which, could I have broken 
i its prism, analysed its crystallisation, might perhaps 
ave revealed to me the essential quality of the unknown 
orm of life which became apparent in it at that moment. 
“he Duc de Guermantes followed his wife, the flash of 
is monocle, the gleam of his teeth, the whiteness of his 
arnation or of his pleated shirt-front scattering, to make 
dom for their light, the darkness of his eyebrows, lips 
nd coat; with a wave of his outstretched hand which he 
t drop on to their shoulders, vertically, without moving 
is head, he commanded the reas monsters, who were 
laking way for him, to resume their. seats, and made a 
rofound bow to the fair young man. One would have 
ud that the Duchess had guessed that her cousin, of 
hom, it was rumoured, she was inclined to make fun 
63 


—= 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


for what she called her “ exaggerations ” (a name which, 
from her own point of view, so typically French and 
restrained, would naturally be applied to the poetry and 
enthusiasm of the Teuton), would be wearing this evenin 
one of those costumes in which the Duchess thought o| 
her as “dressed up”, and that she had decided to give 
her a lesson in good taste. Instead of the wonderfu 
downy plumage which, from the crown of the Princess’s 
head, fell and swept her throat, instead of her net o} 
shells and pearls, the Duchess wore in her hair only ¢ 
simple aigrette, which, rising above her arched nose anc 
level eyes, reminded one of the crest on the head of : 
bird. Her neck and shoulders emerged from a drift 0 
snow-white muslin, against which fluttered a swansdow 
fan, but below this her gown, the bodice of which ha 
for its sole ornament innumerable spangles (either littl 
sticks and beads of metal, or possibly brilliants), moulde 
her figure with a precision that was positively Britisk 
But different as their two costumes were, after the Prin 
cess had given her cousin the chair in which she hersel 
had previously been sitting, they could be seen turnin 
to gaze at one another in taeda appreciation. 

Possibly a smile would curve the lips of Mme. de Guei 
mantes when next day she referred to the headdress, 
little too complicated, which the Princess had worn, bt 
certainly she would declare that it had been, all the sam 
quite lovely, and marvellously arranged; and the Princes 
whose own tastes found something a little cold, a littl 
austere, a little “tailor-made” in her cousin’s way ¢ 
dressing, would discover in this rigid sobriety an @} 
quisite refinement. Moreover the harmony that existe 
between them, the universal and vre-established graviti 


64 


eae 
Se 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


jon exercised by their upbringing neutralised the contrasts 
aot only in their apparel but in their attitude. By those 
nvisible magnetic longitudes which the refinement of their 
manners traced between them the expansive nature of the 
Princess was stopped short, while on the other side the 
formal correctness of the Duchess allowed itself to be 
'ttracted and relaxed, turned to sweetness and charm. 
\s, in the play which was now being performed, to realise 
‘ow much personal poetry Berma extracted from it one 
jad only to entrust the part which she was playing, which 
‘he alone could play, to no matter what other actress, so 
fe spectator who should raise his eyes to the balcony 
light see in two smaller boxes there how an “ arrange- 
ent” supposed to suggest that of the Princesse de Guer- 
hantes simply made the Baronne de Morienval appear 
centric, pretentious and ill-bred, while an effort, as 
fainstaking as it must have been costly, to imitate the 
fothes and style of the Duchesse de Guermantes only 
jade Mme. de Cambremer look like some provincial 
hoolgirl, mounted on wires, rigid, erect, dry, angular, 
pith a plume of raven’s feathers stuck vertically in her 
jur. Perhaps the proper place for this lady was not a 
Weatre in which it was only with the brightest stars of 
| e season that the boxes (even those in the highest tier, 
Baich from below seemed like great hampers brimming 
#th human flowers and fastened to the gallery on which 
Mey stood by the red cords of their plush-covered parti- 
fms) composed a panorama which deaths, scandals, ill- 
‘#sses, quarrels would soon alter, but which this evening 
®'s held motionless by attention, heat, giddiness, dust, 
artness or boredom, in that so to speak everlasting 
yment of unconscious waiting and calm torpor which, in 
i 65 E 


> poate 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


retrospect, seems always to have preceded the explosion 
of a bomb or the first flicker of a fire. | 
The explanation of Mme. de Cambremer’s presence on 
this occasion was that the Princesse de Parme, devoid 
of snobbishness as are most truly royal personages, and 
to make up for this devoured by a pride in and passion 
for charity which held an equal place in her heart with 
her taste for what she believed to be the Arts, had 
bestowed a few boxes here and there upon women like 
Mme. de Cambremer who were not numbered among the 
highest aristocratic society but with whom she was con: 
nected in various charitable undertakings. Mme. de Cam. 
bremer never took her eyes off the Duchesse and Prin’ 
cesse de Guermantes, which was all the simpler for he! 
since, not being actually acquainted with either, she coul 
not be suspected of angling for recognition. Inclusion i! 
the visiting lists of these two great ladies was nevertheles 
the goal towards which she had been marching for the las 
ten years with untiring patience. She had calculated the 
she might reach it, possibly, in five years more. But hay 
ing been smitten by a relentless malady, the inexorabl 
character of which—for she prided herself upon her mec 
ical knowledge—she thought she knew, she was afrai 
that she might not live so long. This evening she wi 
happy at least in the thought that all these women who 
she barely knew would see in her company a man wl 
was one of their own set, the young Marquis de Beause 
gent, Mme. d’Argencourt’s brother, who moved impa 
tially in both worlds and with whom the women of t 
second were greatly delighted to bedizen themselves f 
fore the eyes of those of the first. He was seated behi 
Mme. de Cambremer on a chair placed at an angle, 
66 


sae 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


hat he might rake the other boxes with his glasses. He 
new everyone in the house, and, to greet his friends, 
vith the irresistible charm of his beautifully curved fig- 
re , and fine fair head, he half rose from his seat, stif- 
paing his body, a smile brightening his blue eyes, with a 
Jend of deference and detachment, a picture delicately 
agraved, in its rectangular frame, and placed at an angle 
> the wall, like one of those old prints which portray 
great nobleman in his courtly pride. He often accepted 
lese invitations to go with Mme. de Cambremer to the 
4 In the theatre itself, and on their way out, in the 
bby, he stood gallantly by her side in the thick of the 
irong of more brilliant friends whom he saw about him, 
ad to whom he refrained from speaking, to avoid any 
wkwardness, just as though he had been in doubtful 
pmpany. If at such moments there swept by him the 
sincesse de Guermantes, lightfoot and fair as Diana, 
+ting trail behind her the folds of an incomparable cloak, 
thing after her every head and followed by every eye 
‘nd, most of all, by Mme. de Cambremer’s), M. de 
sausergent would become absorbed in conversation with 
3 companion, acknowledging the friendly and dazzling 
ule of the Princess only with constraint, under com- 
Ision, and with the well-bred reserve, the considerate 
hess of a person whose friendliness might at the 
omment have been inconvenient. 

Had not Mme. de Cambremer known already that the 
x belonged to the Princess, she could still have told 
Bit the Duchesse de Guermantes was the guest from 
— air of keener interest with which she was surveying 
» spectacle of stage and stalls, out of politeness to her 
‘Bitess. But simultaneously with this centrifugal force, 

67 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST | 
an equal and opposite force generated by the same desiri 
to be sociable drew her attention back to her own attire 
her plume, her necklace, her bodice and also to that 0 
the Princess, whose subject, whose slave her cousin seeme( 
thus to proclaim herself, come thither solely to see her 
ready to follow her elsewhere should it have taken th| 
fancy of the official occupant of the box to rise and leave 
and regarding as composed merely of strangers, wort 
looking at simply as curiosities, the rest of the house, 1 
which, nevertheless, she numbered many friends to whos 
boxes she regularly repaired on other evenings and wit 
regard to whom she never failed on those occasions t 
demonstrate a similar loyalism, exclusive, conditional an 
hebdomadary. Mme. de Cambremer was surprised to St 
her there that evening. She knew that the Duchess wi 
staying on very late at Guermantes, and had supposed hr 
to be there still. But she had been told, also, that som 
times, when there was some special function in Paris whi 
she considered it worth her while to attend, Mme. de Gue 
mantes would order one of her carriages to be broug 
round as soon as she had taken tea with the guns, an 
as the sun was setting, start out at a spanking pa 
through the gathering darkness of the forest, then ov 
the high road, to join the train at Combray and so | 
in Paris the same evening. “ Perhaps she has come} 
from Guermantes on purpose to hear Berma,” thous 
Mme. de Cambremer, and marvelled at the thought. A 
she remembered having heard Swann say in that al 
biguous jargon which he used in common with M.. 
Charlus: “The Duchess is one of the noblest souls 
Paris, the cream of the most refined, the choicest societ) 
For myself, who derived from the names Guermant 

68 : 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


3avaria and Condé what I imagined to be the life, the 
thoughts of the two cousins (I could no longer so ascribe 
heir faces, having seen them), I would rather have had 
heir opinion of Phédre than that of the greatest critic 
n the world. For in his I should have found merely in- 
‘ellect, an intellect superior to my own but similar in 
dnd. But what the Duchesse and Princesse de Guer- 
nantes might think, an opinion which would have fur- 
tished me with an invaluable clue to the nature of these 
wo poetic creatures, I imagined with the aid of their 
1ames, I endowed with an irrational charm, and, with 
he thirst, the longing of a fever-stricken wretch, what 
_ demanded that their opinion of Phédre should yield to 
ne was the charm of the summer afternoons that I had 
‘pent in wandering along the Guermantes way. 

Mme. de Cambremer was trying to make out how 
xactly the cousins were dressed. For my own part, I 
1ever doubted that their garments were peculiar to them- 
elves, not merely in the sense in which the livery with 
ved collar or blue facings had belonged once exclusively 
o the houses of Guermantes and Condé, but rather as 
§ peculiar to a bird the plumage which, as well as being 
1: heightening of its beauty, is an extension of its body. 
The toilet of these two ladies seemed to me like a 
naterialisation, snow-white or patterned with colour, of 
heir internal activity, and, like the gestures which I had 
een the Princesse de Guermantes make, with no doubt 
no my own mind that they corresponded to some idea 
atent in hers, the plumes which swept downward from 
ier brow, and her cousin’s glittering spangled bodice 
eemed each to have a special meaning, to be to one or 
he other lady an attribute which was hers and hers alone, 


69 


| 
REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


the significance of which I would eagerly have learned; ; 
the bird of paradise seemed inseparable from its wear 
as her peacock is from Juno, and I did not believe that. 
any other woman could usurp that spangled bodice, any 
more than the fringed and flashing aegis of Minerva, 
And when I turned my eyes to their box, far more than 
on the ceiling of the theatre, painted with cold and life- 
less allegories, it was as though I had seen, thanks to a 
miraculous rending of the clouds that ordinarily veiled it, 
the Assembly of the Gods in the act of contemplating the 
spectacle of mankind, beneath a crimson canopy, in a 
clear lighted space, between two pillars of Heaven, I 
gazed on this brief transfiguration with a disturbance 
which was partly soothed by the feeling that I myself 
was unknown to these Immortals; the Duchess had in- 
deed seen me once with her husband, but could surely 
have kept no memory of that, and it gave me no pain 
that she found herself, owing to the place that she oc- 
cupied in the box, in a position to gaze down upon the 
nameless, collective madrepores of the public in the stalls, 
for I had the happy sense that my own personality had 
been dissolved in theirs, when, at the moment in which, 
by the force of certain optical laws, there must, I suppose, 
have come to paint itself on the impassive current of 
those blue eyes the blurred outline of the protozoon, 
devoid of any individual existence, which was myself, 
I saw a ray illumine them; the Duchess, goddess turned 
woman, and appearing in that moment a thousand times 
more lovely, raised, pointed in my direction the white: 
gloved hand which had been resting on the balustrade 
of the box, waved it at me in token of friendship; my 
gaze felt itself trapped in the spontaneous incandescenet 


70 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


‘of the flashing eyes of the Princess, who had uncon- 
‘sciously set them ablaze merely by turning her head to see 
‘who it might be that her cousin was thus greeting, while 
the Duchess, who had remembered me, showered upon 
me the sparkling and celestial torrent of her smile. 

And now every morning, long before the hour at which 
she would appear, I went by a devious course to post 
myself at the corner of the street along which she gen- 
erally came, and, when the moment of her arrival seemed 
imminent, strolled homewards with an air of being ab- 
‘sorbed in something else, looking the other way and 
raising my eyes to her face as I drew level with her, 
but as though I had not in the least expected to see her. 
Indeed, for the first few mornings, so as to be sure of 
not missing her, I waited opposite the house. And every 
‘ime that the carriage gate opened (letting out one after 
another so many people who were none of them she for 
whom I was waiting) its grinding rattle continued in 
my heart in a series of oscillations which it took me a 
long time to subdue. For never was devotee of a famous 
lactress whom he did not know, posting himself and 
‘atrolling the pavement outside the stage door, never was 
angry or idolatrous crowd, gathered to insult or to carry 
in triumph through the streets the condemned assassin 
‘or the national hero whom it believes to be on the point 
of coming whenever a sound is heard from the inside of 
the prison or the palace, never were thése so stirred by 
sheir emotion as I was, awaiting the emergence of this 
sreat lady who in her simple attire was able, by the grace 
of her movements (quite different from the gait she 
affected on entering a drawing-room or a box), to make 
of her morning walk—and for me there was no one in 


71 


| 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


the world but herself out walking—a whole poem of 
elegant refinement and the finest ornament, the most) 
curious flower of the season. But after the third day, 
so that the porter should not discover my stratagem, I 
betook myself much farther afield, to some point upon) 
the Duchess’s usual route. Often before that evening at 
the theatre I had made similar little excursions before 
luncheon when the weather was fine; if it had been rain- 
ing, at the first gleam of sunshine I would hasten down- 
stairs to take a turn, and if, suddenly, coming towards 
me, on the still wet pavement changed by the sun into 
a golden lacquer, in the transformation scene of a cross= 
roads dusty with a grey mist which the sun tanned and 
gilded, I caught sight of a schoolgirl followed by her 
governess or of a dairy-maid with her white sleeves, I 
stood motionless, my hand pressed to my heart which was. 
already leaping towards an unexplored form of life; I 
tried to bear in mind the street, the time, the number of 
the door through which the girl (whom I followed some- 
times) had vanished and failed to reappear. Fortunately, 
the fleeting nature of these cherished images, which I 
promised myself that I would make an effort to see again, 
prevented them from fixing themselves with any vivid- 
ness in my memory. No matter, I was less sad now at 
the thought of my own ill health, of my never having 
summoned up courage to set to work, to begin a book, 
the world appeared to me now a pleasanter place to 
live in, life a more interesting experience now that I 
had learned that the streets of Paris, like the roads 
round Balbec, were aflower with those unknown beau- 
ties whom I had so often sought to evoke from the 
woods of Méséglise, each one of whom aroused a sensual 


72 


ie =a 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


jonging which she alone appeared capable of assuaging. 
On coming home from the Opéra-Comique I had added 
or next morning to the list of those which for some days 
past I had been hoping to meet again the form of Mme. 
je Guermantes, tall, with her high-piled crown of silky, 
zolden hair; with the kindness promised me in the smile 
which she had directed at me from her cousin’s box. I 
would follow the course which Francoise had told me that 
he Duchess generally took, and I would try at the same 
ime, in the hope of meeting two girls whom I had seen 
1 few days earlier, not to miss the break-up of their 
espective class and catechism. But in the mean time, ever 
ind again, the scintillating smile of Mme. de Guermantes, 
he pleasant sensation it had given me returned. And 
without exactly knowing what I was doing, I tried to 
ind a place for them (as a woman studies the possible 
effect on her dress of some set of jewelled buttons that 
aave just been given her) beside the romantic ideas 
vhich I had long held and which Albertine’s coldness, 
3iséle’s premature departure, and before them my delib- 
wrate and too long sustained separation from Gilberte 
aad set free (the Hea for instance of being loved by a 
voman, of having a life in common with Hen next, it 
aad Been the image of one or other of the two girls seen 
n the street that I brought into relation with those ideas, 
‘0 which immediately afterwards I was trying to nie 
ny memory of the Duchess. Compared with those ideas 
ny memory of Mme. de Guermantes at the Opéra-Co- 
nique was a very little thing, a tiny star twinkling beside 
she long tail of a blazing comet; moreover I had been 
juite familiar with the ideas rea before I came to know 
Mme. de Guermantes; my memory of her, on the con- 


73 


) 


} 
h 
) 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


trary, I possessed but imperfectly; every now and then 
it escaped me; it was during the hours when, from float- 
ing vaguely in my mind in the same way as the images 
of various other pretty women, it passed gradually into 
a unique and definite association—exclusive of every 
other feminine form—with those romantic ideas of so 
much longer standing than itself, it was during those few 
hours in which I remembered it most clearly that I ought 
to have taken steps to find out exactly what it was; but 
I did not then know the importance which it was to 
assume for me; it was pleasant merely as a first private 
meeting with Mme. de Guermantes inside myself, it was 
the first, the only accurate sketch, the only one taken 
from life, the only one that was really Mme. de Guer 
mantes; during the few hours in which I was fortunate 
enough to retain it without having the sense to pay it 
any attention, it must all the same have been charming; 
that memory, since it was always to it, and quite freely 
moreover, to that moment, without haste, without strain. 
without the slightest compulsion or anxiety, that my ideas 
of love returned; then, as gradually those ideas fixed it 
more definitely, it acquired from them a proportionately 
greater strength but itself became more vague; presently 
I could no longer recapture it; and in my dreams I prob- 
ably altered it completely, for whenever I saw Mme. de 
Guermantes I realised the difference—never twice, as it 
happened, the same—between what I had imagined an 
what I saw. And now every morning, certainly at the 
moment when Mme. de Guermantes emerged from her 
gateway at the top of the street I saw again her tall 
figure, her face with its bright eyes and crown of silken 
hair—all the things for which I was there waiting; but, 


74 


= es SS 


| THE GUERMANTES WAY 


pn the other hand, a minute or two later, when, having 
irst turned my eyes away so as to appear not to be 
waiting for this encounter which I had come out to seek, 
| raised them to look at the Duchess at the moment in 
which we converged, what I saw then were red patches 
‘as to which I knew not whether they were due to the 
iresh air or to a faulty complexion) on a sullen face 
which with the curtest of nods, a long way removed from 
the affability of the Phédre evening, acknowledged my 
alute, which I addressed to her daily with an air of sur- 
prise, and which did not seem to please her. And yet, 
after a few days, during which the memory of the two 
sirls fought against heavy odds for the mastery of my 
amorous feelings against that of Mme. de Guermantes, 
‘t was in the end the latter which, as though of its own 
iccord, generally prevailed while its competitors with- 
lrew; it was to it that I finally found myself, deliberately 
preover; and as though by preference and for my own 
sleasure, to have transferred all my thoughts of love. I 
aad ceased to dream of the little girls coming from their 
patechism, or of a certain dairy-maid; and yet I had also 
ost all hope of encountering in the street what I had come 
out to seek, either the affection promised to me, at the 
sheatre, in a smile, or the profile, the bright face beneath 
(ts pile of golden hair which were so only when seen from 
vfar. Now I should not even have been able to say what 
Mime. de Guermantes was like, by what I recognised her, 
jor every day, in the picture which she presented as a 
whole, the face was different, as were the dress and the 
lat. 

_ Why did I one morning, when I saw bearing down 
on me beneath a violet Hors a sweet, smooth face whose 


75 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


charms were symmetrically arranged about a pair of blue 
eyes, a face in which the curve of the nose seemed to have 
been absorbed, gauge from a joyous commotion in my 
bosom that I was not going to return home without having 
caught a glimpse of Mme. de Guermantes; and on the 
next feel the same disturbance, affect the same indif- 
ference, turn away my eyes in the same careless manner 
as on the day before, on the apparition, seen in profile 
as she crossed from a side street and crowned by a navy- 
blue toque, of a beak-like nose bounding a flushed cheek 
chequered with a piercing eye, like some Egyptian deity? 
Once it was not merely a woman with a bird’s beak that 
I saw but almost the bird itself; the outer garments, even 
the toque of Mme. de Guermantes were of fur, and since 
she thus left no cloth visible, she seemed naturally furred, 
like certain vultures whose thick, smooth, dusky, downy 
plumage suggests rather the skin of a wild beast. From 
the midst of this natural plumage, the tiny head arched 
out its beak and the two eyes on its surface were plercing- 
keen and blue. | 4 
One day I had been pacing up and down the street for 
hours on end without a vestige of Mme. de Guermantes 
when suddenly, inside a pastry-cook’s shop tucked in 
between two of the mansions of this aristocratic and ple- 
beian quarter, there appeared, took shape the vague and 
unfamiliar face of a fashionably dressed woman who was 
asking to see some little cakes, and, before I had had 
time to make her out, there shot forth at me like a light- 
ning flash, reaching me sooner than its accompaniment. 
of thunder, the glance of the Duchess; another time, 
having failed to meet her and hearing twelve strike, I: 
realised that it was not worth my while to wait for her. 
76 : 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


Jy longer, I was sorrowlully making my way home- 
vurds ; and, absorbed in my own disappointment, looking 
asently after and not seeing a carriage that had over- 
tken me, I realised suddenly that the movement of her 
fad which I saw a lady make through the carriage win- 
w was meant for me, and that this lady, whose features, 
laxed and pale, or it might equally be tense and vivid, 

mposed, beneath a round hat which nestled at the feat 
Ca towering plume, the face of a stranger whom I had 
‘pposed that I did not know, was Mme. de Guermantes, 

| whom I had let myself be greeted without so much 
2 acknowledging her bow. And sometimes I came upon 
|r as I entered the gate, standing outside the lodge where 
te detestable porter whose scrutinous eye I loathed and 
ceaded was in the act of making her a profound obeisance 
‘id also, no doubt, his daily report. For the entire staff 
¢ the Guermantes household, hidden behind the window 
(rtains, were trembling as they watched a conversation 
‘hich they were unable to overhear, but which meant 
, they very well knew that one or other of them would 
(rtainly have his “day out” stopped by the Duchess to 
‘hom this Cerberus was betraying him. In view of the 
thole series of different faces which Mme. Guermantes 
‘splayed thus one after another, faces that occupied a 
lative and varying extent, contracted one day, vast the 
xt, in her person and attire as a whole, my love was 
ot attached to any one of those changeable and ever- 
uanging elements of flesh and fabric which replaced one 
Aother as day followed day, and which she could modify, 
ould almost entirely reconstruct without altering my 
‘sturbance because beneath them, beneath the new collar 
ad the strange cheek, I felt that it was still Mme. de 


| 77 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


Guermantes. What I loved was the invisible person wh 
set all this outward show in motion, her whose hostili 
so distressed me, whose approach set me trembling, who. 
life I would fain have made my own and driven out of. 
her friends. She might flaunt a blue feather or shew) 
fiery cheek without her actions’ losing their importan| 
for me. i) 

I should not myself have felt that Mme. de Guermant!| 
was tired of meeting me day after day, had I not learn¢ 
it indirectly by reading it on the face, stiff with coldnes 
disapproval and pity which Francoise shewed when s}) 
was helping me to get ready for these morning walk 
The moment I asked her for my outdoor things I fe| 
a contrary wind arise in her worn and battered feature 
I made no attempt to win her confidence, for I kne 
that I should not succeed. She had, for at once discoverit 
any unpleasant thing that might have happened to m 
parents or myself, a power the nature of which I hay 
never been able to fathom. Perhaps it was not supe: 
natural, but was to be explained by sources of informs 
tion that were open to her alone: as it may happen thi 
the news which often reaches a savage tribe several day 
before the post has brought it to the European color 
has really been transmitted to them not by telepathy b 
from hill-top to hill-top by a chain of beacon fires. §| 
in the particular instance of my morning walks, possibl 
Mme. de Guermantes’s servants had heard their mistre 
say how tired she was of running into me every da 
without fail wherever she went, and had repeated he 
remarks to Francoise. My parents might, it is true, hay 
attached some servant other than Francoise to my perso 
still I should have been no better off. F rancgoise was i 


78. 


Tee a 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


vense less of a servant than the others. In her way of 
ling things, of being kind and pitiful, hard and distant, 
yerior and narrow, of combining a white skin with red 
ads she was still the village maiden whose parents 
4 had “a place of their own” but having come to grief 
d been obliged to put her into service. Her presence 
your household was the country air, the social life of a 
im of fifty years ago waited to us by a sort of reversal 
tthe normal order of travel whereby it is the place that 
mes to visit the person. As the glass cases in a local 
iseum are filled with specimens of the curious handi- 
tk which the peasants still carve or embroider or 
atever it may be in certain parts of the country, so 
¢ flat in Paris was decorated with the words of Fran- 
se, inspired by a traditional local sentiment and gov- 
ied by extremely ancient laws. And she could in Paris 
id her way back as though by clues of coloured thread 
‘the songbirds and cherry trees of her childhood, to 
hr mother’s deathbed, which she still vividly saw. But 
spite of all this wealth of background, once she had 
sme to Paris and had entered our service she had ac- 
yired—as, obviously, anyone else coming there in her 
bce would have acquired—the ideas, the system of inter- 
fetation used by the servants on the other floors, com- 
rnsating for the respect which she was obliged to shew 
bus by repeating the rude words that the cook on the 
farth floor had used to her mistress, with a servile 
Zatification so intense that, for the first time in our lives, 
ling a sort of solidarity between ourselves and the 
i occupant of the fourth floor flat, we said to 
irselves that possibly we too were “employers” after 
:. This alteration in Francoise’s character was perhaps 


79 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


inevitable. Certain forms of existence are so abnorn 
that they are bound to produce certain characteris 
faults; such was the life led by the King at Versail; 
among his courtiers, a life as strange as that of a Phara| 
or a Doge—and, far more even than his, the life of |; 
courtiers. The life led by our servants is probably | 
an even more monstrous abnormality, which only $} 
familiarity can prevent us from seeing. But it was acl. 
ally in details more intimate still that I should have be} 
obliged, if I had dismissed Francoise, to keep the sai 
servant. For various others might, in years to come, ent 
my service; already furnished with the defects comm} 
to all servants, they underwent nevertheless a rapid tray 
formation with me. As, in the rules of tactics, an attat 
in one sector compels a counter-attack in another, so} 
not to be hurt by the asperities of my nature, all of thi 
effected in their own an identical resilience, always | 
the same points, and to make up for this took advante} 
of the gaps in my line to thrust out advanced posts. ‘f 
these gaps I knew nothing, any more than of the saliei 
to which they gave rise, precisely because they were ga 
But my servants, by gradually becoming spoiled, taugt 
me of their existence. It was from the defects which th 
invariably acquired that I learned what were my ol 
natural and invariable shortcomings; their charact 
offered me a sort of negative plate of my own. We hi 
always laughed, my mother and I, at Mme. Sazerat, w) 
used, in speaking of her servants, expressions like “1 
lower orders ” or “ the servant class ”. But I am bound: 
admit that what made it useless to think of replaciz 
Francoise by anyone else was that her successor wotl 
inevitably have belonged just as much to the race! 

80 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


(rvants in general and to the class of my servants in 
irticular. 

‘To return to Frangoise, I never in my life experienced 
iy humiliation without having seen beforehand on her 
{ce a store of condolences prepared and waiting; and 
ithen in my anger at the thought of being pitied by her 
Itried to pretend that on the contrary I had scored a 
dstinct success, my lies broke feebly on the wall of her 
rspectful but obvious unbelief and the consciousness that 
se enjoyed of her own infallibility. For she knew the 
tith. She refrained from uttering it, and made only a 
sght movement with her lips as if she still had her mouth 
fl and was finishing a tasty morsel. She refrained from 
L ering it, or so at least I long believed, for at that time 
[still supposed that it was by means of words that one 
¢mmunicated the truth to others. Indeed the words that 
fople used to me recorded their meaning so unalterably 
¢ the sensitive plate of my mind that I could no more 
ae it to be possible that anyone who had professed 
t' love me did not love me than Francoise herself could 
ive doubted when she had read it in a newspaper that 
sne clergyman or gentleman was prepared, on receipt 
ca stamped envelope, to furnish us free of charge with 
i infallible remedy for every known complaint or with 
> means of multiplying our income an hundredfold. 
(, on the other hand, our doctor were to prescribe for 
it the simplest ointment to cure a cold in the head, 
2, so stubborn to endure the keenest suffering, would 
nplain bitterly of what she had been made to sniff, 
isting that it tickled her nose and that life was not 
rth living.) But she was the first person to prove to 
: by her example (which I was not to understand until, 
I 81 F 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


long afterwards, when it was given me afresh and to n 
greater discomfort, as will be found in the later volum 
of this work, by a person who was dearer to me thi 
Francoise) that the truth has no need to be uttered 
be made apparent, and that one may perhaps gather 
with more certainty, without waiting for words, withe 
even bothering one’s head about them, from a thousai 
outward signs, even from certain invisible phenomer 
analogous in the sphere of human character to what 
nature are atmospheric changes. I might perhaps ha 
suspected this, since to myself at that time it frequent 
occurred that I said things in which there was no vesti 
of truth, while I made the real truth plain by all manr 
of involuntary confidences expressed by my body and 
my actions (which were at once interpreted by Fra 
soise); I ought perhaps to have suspected it, but to do 
I should first have had to be conscious that I myself w 
occasionally untruthful and dishonest. Now untruthf 
ness and dishonesty were with me, as with most peop 
called into being in so immediate, so contingent a fashic 
and in self-defence, by some particular interest, thatr 
mind, fixed on some lofty ideal, allowed my character, 
the darkness below, to set about those urgent, sort 
tasks, and did not look down to observe them. Wh 
Francoise, in the evening, was polite to me, and ask 
my permission before sitting down in my room, it see 
as though her face became transparent and I could: 
the goodness and honesty that lay beneath. But Jupi 
who had lapses into indiscretion of which I learned o1 
later, revealed afterwards that she had told him that 
was not worth the price of a rope to hang me, and tl 
I had tried to insult her in every possible Way. Thi 
82 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


ds of Jupien set up at once before my eyes, in new 
d strange colours, a print of the picture of my relations 
th Francoise so different from that on which I used to 
e letting my eyes rest, and in which, without the least 
ssibility of doubt, Francoise adored me and lost no op- 
rtunity of singing my praises, that I realised that it 
not only the material world that is different from the 
yect in which we see it; that all reality is perhaps 
wally dissimilar from what we think ourselves to be 
ectly perceiving; that the trees, the sun and the sky 
yuld not be the same as what we see if they were 
orehended by creatures having eyes differently con- 
tuted from ours, or, better still, endowed for that pur- 
sé with organs other than eyes which would furnish 
,es and sky and sun with equivalents, though not visual. 
wever that might be, this sudden outlet which Jupien 
yew open for me upon the real world appalled me. So 
, it was only Francoise that was revealed, and of her 
varely thought. Was it the same with all one’s social 
ations? And in what depths of despair might this not 
ne day plunge me, if it were the same with love? That 
s the future’s secret. For the present only Francoise 
s concerned. Did she sincerely believe what she had 
d to Jupien? Had she said it to embroil Jupien with 
possibly so that we should not appoint Jupien’s girl 
ther successor? At any rate I realised the impossibility 
obtaining any direct and certain knowledge of whether 
ingoise loved or lothed me. And thus it was she who 
t gave me the idea that a person does not (as I had | 
igined) stand motionless and clear before our eyes 
h his merits, his defects, his plans, his intentions with 


83 


ard to ourself exposed on his surface, like a garden |. 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


, at which, with all its borders spread out before us, y 
gaze through a railing, but is a shadow which we Cc 
never succeed in penetrating, of which there can be 1 
such thing as direct knowledge, with respect to whi 
we form enirries: beliefs, based upon his words ar 
sometimes upon his actions, though neither words ni 
actions can give us anything but inadequate and as | 
proves contradictory information—a shadow behind wih 
we can alternately imagine, with equal justification, th) 
there burns the flame of hatred and of love. 1 

I was genuinely in love with Mme. de Guermanti 
The greatest happiness that I could have asked of Gi 
would have been that He should overwhelm her und; 
every imaginable calamity, and that ruined, despise, 
stripped of all the privileges that divided her from Tr 
having no longer any home of her own or people wi 
would condescend to speak to her, she should come } 
me for refuge. I imagined her doing so. And indeed 4 
those evenings when some change in the atmosphere ! 
in my own condition brought to the surface of my co 
sciousness some forgotten scroll on which were record 
impressions of other days, instead of profiting by t 
refreshing strength that had been generated in me, instel 


of employing it to decipher in my own mind though 


at last to work, I preferred to relate aloud, to plan ¢ 
in the third person, with a flow of invention as uselé 
as was my declamation of it, a whole novel cramm 
with adventure, in which the Duchess, fallen upon m: 
fortune, came to implore assistance from me—me who hi 
become, by a converse change of circumstances, rich al 
powerful. And when I had let myself thus for hours 1 


84 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


nd imagine the circumstances, rehearse the sentences 
rith which I should welcome the Duchess beneath my 
of, the situation remained unaltered; I had, alas, in 
eality, chosen to love the very woman who, in her own 
erson, combined perhaps the greatest possible number of 
ifferent advantages; in whose eyes, accordingly, I could 
ot hope, myself, ever to cut any figure; for she was as 
ich as the richest commoner—and noble also; without 
sckoning that personal charm which set her at the pin- 
acle of fashion, made her among the rest a sort of queen. 
I felt that I was annoying her by crossing her path 
) this way every morning; but even if I had had the 
durage to refrain, for two or three days consecutively, 
7om doing so, perhaps that abstention, which would have 
epresented so great a sacrifice on my part, Mme. de 
juermantes would not have noticed, or would have set it 
own to some obstacle beyond my control. And indeed 
-could not have succeeded in making myself cease to 
rack her down except by arranging that it should be 
possible for me to do so, for the need incessantly 
viving in me to meet her, to be for a moment the object 
{ her attention, the person to whom her bow was ad- 
ressed, was stronger than my fear of arousing her dis- 
leasure. I should have had to go away for some time; 
ad for that I had not the heart. I did think of it 
tore than once. I would then tell Francoise to pack my 
oxes, and immediately afterwards to unpack them. And 
$ the spirit of imitation, the desire not to appear behind 
ae times, alters the most natural and most positive form 
£ oneself, Francoise, borrowing the expression from 
er daughter’s vocabulary, used to remark that I was 
dippy ”. She did not approve of this; she said that I 
85 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


was always “balancing”, for she made use, when sh 
was not aspiring to rival the moderns, of the language ¢ 
Saint-Simon. It is true that she liked it still less whe 
I spoke to her as master to servant. She knew that th 
was not natural to me, and did not suit me, a conditi 
which she rendered in words as “ where there isn’t a will’ 
I should never have had the heart to leave Paris excey 
in a direction that would bring me closer to Mme. d 
Guermantes. This was by no means an impossibilit 
Should I not indeed find myself nearer to her than. 
was in the morning, in the street, solitary, abashed, fee 
ing that not a single one of the thoughts which I shoul 
have liked to convey to her ever reached her, in th; 
weary patrolling up and down of walks which might t 
continued, day after day, for ever without the slighte: 
advantage to myself, if I were to go miles away frot 
Mme. de Guermantes, but go to some one of her a 
quaintance, some one whom she knew to be particuk 
in the choice of his friends and who would appreciate m 
good qualities, would be able to speak to her about m 
and if not to obtain it from her at least to make h 
know what I wanted, some one by means of whom, in an 
event, simply because I should discuss with him whethi 
or not it would be possible for him to convey this ¢ 
that message to her, I should give to my solitary an 
silent meditations a new form, spoken, active, whic 
would seem an advance, almost a realisation. What sl 
did during the mysterious daily life of the “ Guermantes 
that she was—this was the constant object of my thought 
and to break through the mystery, even by indirect mean 
as with a lever, by employing the services of a person * 
whom were not forbidden the town house of the Duches 

86 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


ver parties, unrestricted conversation with her, would not 
hat be a contact more distant but at the same time 
aore effective than my contemplation of her every morn- 
ng in the street? 

The friendship, the admiration that Saint-Loup felt 
or me seemed to me undeserved and had hitherto left 
1e unmoved. All at once I attached a value to them, I 
oe have liked him to disclose them to Mme. de Guer- 
iantes, I was quite prepared even to ask him to do so. 
‘or when we are in love, all the trifling little privileges 
‘at we enjoy we would like to be able to divulge to the 
voman we love, as people who have been disinherited 
nd bores of other kinds do to us in every-day life. We 
re distressed by her ignorance of them; we seek con- 
lation in the thought that just because they are never 
isible she has perhaps added to the opinion which she 
tready had of us this possibility of further advantages 
jat must remain unknown. 

'Saint-Loup had not for a long time been able to come 
) Paris, whether, as he himself explained, on account of 
‘8 military duties, or, as was more likely, on account of 
te trouble that he was having with his mistress, with 
‘hom he had twice now been on the point of breaking off 
‘lations. He had often told me what a pleasure it would 
* to him if I came to visit him at that garrison town, the 
ame of which, a couple of days after his leaving Balbec, 
ad caused me so much } joy when I had read it on the 
ere of the first letter I received from my friend. It 
as (not so far from Balbec as its wholly inland sur- 
sundings might have led one to think) one of those little 
ttified towns, aristocratic and military, set in a broad 
‘panse of country over which on fine days there floats so 


87 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


often into the distance a sort of intermittent haze of soun 
which—as a screen of poplars by its sinuosities outline 
the course of a river which one cannot see—indicates th 
movements of a regiment on parade that the very atmos 
phere of its streets, avenues and squares has been gradu 
ally tuned to a sort of perpetual vibration, musical. an 
martial, while the most ordinary note of cartwheel o 
tramway is prolonged in vague trumpet calls, indefinitel 
repeated, to the hallucinated ear, by the silence. It wa 
not too far away from Paris for me to be able, if I too 
the express, to return, join my mother and grandmothe 
and sleep in my own bed. As soon as I realised this 
troubled by a painful longing, I had too little will powe 
to decide not to return to Paris but rather to stay in thi 
town; but also too little to prevent a porter from carryin 
my luggage to a cab and not to adopt, as I walked behin 
him, the unburdened mind of a traveller who is lookin 
after his luggage and for whom no grandmother is wait 
ing anywhere at home, to get into the carriage with th 
complete detachment of a person who, having ceased t 
think of what it is that he wants, has the air of knowin 
what he wants, and to give the driver the address of th 
cavalry barracks. I thought that Saint-Loup might com 
to sleep that night at the hotel at which I should be sta 
ing, so as to make less painful for me the first shock 
contact with this strange town. One of the guard went t 
find him, and I waited at the barrack gate, before tha 
huge ship of stone, booming with the November wind, ou 
of which, every moment, for it was now six o'clock, me 
were emerging in pairs into the street, staggering as 1 
they were coming ashore in some foreign port in whic 
they found themselves temporarily anchored. 
88 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


| Saint-Loup appeared, moving like a whirlwind, his eye- 
ylass spinning in the air before him; I had not given my 
same, I was eager to enjoy his surprise and delight. “Oh! 
Nhat a bore!” he exclaimed, suddenly catching sight of 
ae, and blushing to the tips of his ears. “I have just had 
, week’s leave, and I shan’t be off duty again for another 
yeek,” 

_ And, preoccupied by the thought of my having to spend 
his first night alone, for he knew better than anyone 
ay bed-time agonies, which he had often remarked and 
sothed at Balbec, he broke off his lamentation to turn 
nd look at me, coax me with little smiles, with tender 
qough unsymmetrical glances, half of them coming di- 
ectly from his eye, the other half through his eyeglass, 
ut both sorts alike an allusion to the emotion that he 
alt on seeing me again, an allusion also to that important 
jatter which I did not always understand but which con- 
erned me now vitally, our friendship. 

| “I say! Where are you going to sleep? Really, I can’t 
pcommend the hotel where we mess; it is next to the Ex- 
ibition ground, where there’s a show just starting; 
ou'll find it beastly crowded. No, you’ld better go to the 
Otel de Flandre; it is a little eighteenth-century palace 


ith old tapestries. It ‘makes’ quite an ‘old world 


ssidence 47? 


Saint-Loup employed in every ‘connexion the word 
makes” for “has the air of ”, because the spoken lan- 
lage, like the written, feels from time to time the need 
_ these alterations in the meanings of words, these re- 
1ements of expression. And just as journalists often have 
ot the least idea from what school of literature come the 
turns of speech” that they borrow, so the vocabulary, 


89 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


the very diction of Saint-Loup were formed in imitation 
of three different aesthetes, none of whom he knew per 
sonally but whose way of speaking had been indirecth 
instilled into him. “ Besides,” he concluded, “the hotel 
mean is more or less adapted to your supersensitiveness 0 
hearing. You will have no neighbours. I quite see thati 
is a slender advantage, and as, after all, another visito 
may arrive to-morrow, it would not be worth your whil 
to choose that particular hotel with so precarious an objec 
in view. No, it is for its appeal to the eye that I recom 
mend it. The rooms are quite attractive, all the furnitur 
is old and comfortable; there is something reassuring abo 
that.” But to me, less of an artist than Saint-Loup, th 
pleasure that an attractive house could give was supe 
ficial, almost non-existent, and could not calm my growin 
anguish, as painful as that which I used to feel long ag 
at Combray when my mother did not come upstairs t 
say good night, or that which I felt on the evening of m 
arrival at Balbec in the room with the unnaturally hig 
ceiling, which smelt of flowering grasses. Saint-Loup rea 
all this in my fixed gaze. 

“A lot you care, though, about this charming palac 
my poor fellow; you’re quite pale; and here am I like 
great brute talking to you about tapestries which ye 
won’t have the heart to look at,-even. I know the roo 
they'll put you in; personally I find it most enlivening, b 
I can quite understand that it won’t have the same effe 
on you with your sensitive nature. You mustn’t think 
don’t understand; I don’t feel the same myself, but I ¢ 
put myself in your place.” | 

At that moment a serjeant who was exercising a hae 
on the square, entirely absorbed in making the anim 


90 


: THE GUERMANTES WAY 


imp, disregarding the salutes of passing troopers, but 
urling volleys of oaths at such as got in his way, turned 
ith a smile to Saint-Loup and, seeing that he had a friend 
ith him, saluted us. But his horse at once reared. Saint- 
oup flung himself at its head, caught it by the bridle, 
acceeded in quieting it and returned to my side. 

| “Yes,” he resumed; “I assure you that I fully under- 
fand; I feel for you as keenly as you do yourself. I am 
‘retched,” he went on, laying his hand lovingly on my 
aoulder, “when I think that if I could have stayed with 
ou to-night, I might have been able, if we talked till 
t 
| 


‘orning, to relieve you of a little of your unhappiness. I 
in lend you any number of books, but you won’t want to 
rad if you’re feeling like that. And I shan’t be able to 
st anyone else to take my duty here; I’ve been off now 
vice running because my girl came down to see me.” 
And he knitted his brows partly with vexation and also 
\ the effort to decide, like a doctor, what remedy he might 
2st apply to my disease. 

“Run along and light the fire in my quarters,” he called 
)a trooper who passed us. “ Hurry up; get a move on!” 
After which he turned once more to me, and his eyeglass 
ad his peering, myopic gaze hinted an allusion to our 
reat friendship. 

‘“ No! To see you here, in these barracks where I have 
bent so much time thinking about you, I can scarcely 
slieve my eyes. I must be dreaming. And how are you? 
‘etter, I hope. You must tell me all about yourself pres- 
itly. We'll go up to my room; we mustn’t hang about too 
ng on the square, there’s the devil of a draught; I don’t 
el it now myself, but you aren’t accustomed to it, I’m 
‘raid of your catching cold. And what about your work; 


gI 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


have you started yet? No? You are a quaint fellow! | 
i had your talent I’m sure I should be writing mornin) 
noon and night. It amuses you more to do nothing? Whi 
a pity it is that it’s the useless fellows like me who ar 
always ready to work, and the ones who could if the 
wanted to, won’t. There, and I’ve clean forgotten to as 
you how your grandmother is. Her Proudhons are in saj 
keeping. I never part from them.” | 

An officer, tall, handsome, majestic, emerged with slo} 
and solemn gait from the foot of a staircase. Saint-Lou 
saluted him and arrested the perpetual instability of hi 
body for the moment occupied in holding his hand agains 
the peak of his cap. But he had flung himself into th 
action with so much force, straightening himself with § 
sharp a movement, and, the salute ended, let his hand fa} 
with so abrupt a relaxation, altering all the positions ¢ 
shoulder, leg, and eyeglass, that this moment was one n¢ 
so much of immobility as of a throbbing tension in whic 
were neutralised the excessive movements which he ha 
just made and those on which he was about to embar] 
Meanwhile the officer, without coming any nearer us, caln 
benevolent, dignified, imperial, representing, in short th 
direct opposite of Saint-Loup, himself also, but withov 
haste, raised his hand to the peak of his cap. 

“I must just say a word to the Captain,” whispere 
Saint-Loup. “ Be a good fellow, and go and wait for m 
in my room. It’s the second on the right, on the thir 
floor; I’ll be with you in a minute.” | 

And setting off at the double, preceded by his eyeglas 
which fluttered in every direction, he made straight fc 
the slow and stately Captain whose horse had just bee 
brought round and who, before preparing to mount, we 


92 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


vee orders with a studied nobility of gesture as in some 


storical painting, and as though he were setting forth 
{ take part in some battle of the First Empire, whereas 
| was simply going to ride home, to the house which he 
jd taken for the period of his service at Donciéres, and 
wich stood in a Square that was named, as though in an 
nical anticipation of the arrival of this Napoleonid, 
laée de la République. I started to climb the staircase, 
yarly slipping on each of its nail-studded steps, catching 
impses of barrack-rooms, their bare walls edged with a 


uuble line of beds and kits. I was shewn Saint-Loup’s 
- I stood for a moment outside its closed door, for 


could hear some one stirring; he moved something, let 
{ll something else; [ felt that the room was not empty, 
tat there must be somebody there. But it was only the 
{:shly lighted fire beginning to burn. It could not keep 
qiet, it kept shifting its faggots about, and very clumsily. 
lzntered the room; it let one roll into the fender and set 
éother smoking. And even when it was not moving, like 
¢. ill-bred person it made noises all the time, which, from 
te moment | saw the flames rising, revealed themselves 
{me as noises made by a fire, although if I had been on 
te other side of a wall I should have thought that they 
(me from some one who was blowing his nose and walk- 
iz about. I sat down in the room and waited. Liberty 
Lngings and old German stuffs of the eighteenth century 
lanaged to rid it of the smell that was exhaled by the rest 
the building, a coarse, insipid, mouldy smell like that 
/stale toast. It was here, in this charming room, that I 
uld have dined and slept with a calm and happy mind. 
int-Loup seemed almost to be present by reason of the 
xt-books which littered his table, between his photo- 


93 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


graphs, among which I could make out my own and thi 
of the Duchesse de Guermantes, by the light of the fii 
which had at length grown accustomed to the grate, ani 
like an animal crouching in an ardent, noiseless, faithfi 
watchfulness, let fall only now and then a smoulderir 
log which crumbled into sparks, or licked with a tongy| 
of flame the sides of the chimney. I heard the tick « 
Saint-Loup’s watch, which could not be far away. Th 
tick changed its place every moment, for I could not s¢ 
the watch; it seemed to come from behind, from in fro} 
of me, from my right, from my left, sometimes to di 
away as though at a great distance. Suddenly I caug} 
sight of the watch on the table. Then I heard the ti 
in a fixed place from which it did not move again. Thi 
is to say, I thought I heard it at this place; I did not he; 
it there; I saw it there, for sounds have no position | 
space. Or rather we associate them with movements, af 
in that way they serve the purpose of warning us of tho} 
movements, of appearing to make them necessary a1 
natural. Certainly it happens commonly enough that! 
sick man whose ears have been stopped with cotton-wg 
ceases to hear the noise of a fire such as was crackling | 
that moment in Saint-Loup’s fireplace, labouring } 
the formation of brands and cinders, which it then leé 
fall into the fender, nor would he hear the passage of t} 
tramway-cars whose music took its flight, at regular 1 
tervals, over the Grand’place of Donciéres. Let the sit 
man then read a book, and the pages will turn silent’ 
before him, as though they were moved by the fingers I 
a god. The dull thunder of a bath which is being fill 
becomes thin, faint and distant as the twittering of bir 
in the sky. The withdrawal of sound, its dilution, ta? 


94 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


Lh it all its power to hurt us; driven mad a moment ago 
7 hammer-blows which seemed to be shattering the ceil- 
g above our head, it is with a quiet delight that we now 
ather in their sound, light, caressing, distant, like the 
jurmur of leaves playing by the roadside with the pass- 
ig breeze. We play games of patience with cards which 
je do not hear, until we imagine that we have not touched 
vem, that they are moving of their own accord, and, an- 
fipating our desire to play with them, have begun to play 
jth us. And in this connexion we may ask ourselves 
yhether, in the case of love (to which indeed we may add 
te love of life and the love of fame, since there are, it 
wpears, persons who are acquainted with these latter 
éntiments), we ought not to act like those who, when a 
wise disturbs them, instead of praying that it may cease, 
sop their ears; and, with them for our pattern, bring our 
étention, our defensive strength to bear on ourselves, give 
«rselves as an objective to capture not the “ other per- 
sn” with whom we are in love but our capacity for suf- 
tring at that person’s hands. 

To return to the problem of sounds, we have only to 
ticken the wads which close the aural passages, and they 
cnfine to a pianissimo the girl who has just been playing 
“boisterous tune overhead; if we go farther, and steep 
te wad in grease, at once the whole household must obey 
j despotic rule; its laws extend even beyond our portals. 
lanissimo is not enough; the wad instantly orders the 
ano to be shut, and the music lesson is abruptly ended; 
2 gentleman who was walking up and down in the room 
love breaks off in the middle of his beat; the movement 
| Carriages and tramways is interrupted as though a 
vereign were expected to pass. And indeed this attenu- 


95 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST | 


ation of sounds sometimes disturbs our slumbers insted 
of guarding them. Only yesterday the incessant noise | 
our ears, by describing to us in a continuous narrative ¢ 
that was happening in the street and in the house, su 
ceeded at length in making us sleep, like a boring bool 
to-night, through the sheet of silence that is spread ov) 
our sleep a shock, louder than the rest, manages to mal 
itself heard, gentle as a sigh, unrelated to any other soun 
mysterious; and the call for an explanation which it emi, 
is sufficient to awaken us. Take away for a moment fro, 
the sick man the cotton-wool that has been stopping 
ears and in a flash the full daylight, the sun of sour 
dawns afresh, dazzling him, is born again in his univers 
in all haste returns the multitude of exiled sounds; y 
are present, as though it were the chanting of choir 
angels, at the resurrection of the voice. The empty stree 
are filled for a moment with the whirr of the swift, co: 
secutive wings of the singing tramway-cars. In the be- 
room itself, the sick man has created, not, like Promethei, 
fire, but the sound of fire. And when we increase * 
reduce the wads of cotton-wool, it is as though we we} 
pressing alternately one and the other of the two peds 
with which we have extended the resonant compass f 
the outer world. | 

Only there are also suppressions of sound which ae 
not temporary. The man who has grown completely def 
cannot even heat a pan of milk by his bedside, but | 
must keep an eye open to watch, on the tilted lid, i 
the white, arctic reflexion, like that of a coming sno: 
storm, which is the warning sign which he is wise to obt, 
by cutting off (as Our Lord bade the waves be still) t 
electric current; for already the swelling, jerkily climbi 


96 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


gg of boiling milk-film is reaching its climax in a series 
f sidelong movements, has filled and set bellying the 
rooping sails with which the cream has skimmed its sur- 
ce, sends in a sudden storm a scud of pearly substance 
ying overboard—sails which the cutting off of the cur- 
int, if the electric storm is hushed in time, will fold back 
pon themselves and let fall with the ebbing tide, changed 
low to magnolia petals. But if the sick man should not be 
i 


uick enough in taking the necessary precautions, pres- 
atly, when his Aroeaee books and watch are seen barely 
merging from the milky tide, he will be obliged to call 
ne old nurse who, though he be himself an eminent 
tatesman or a famous writer, will tell him that he has 
‘o more sense than a child of five. At other times in the 
iagic chamber, between us and the closed door, a person 
*ho was not there a moment ago makes his appearance; 
‘1g a visitor whom we did not hear coming in, and who 
terely gesticulates, like a figure in one of those little pup- 
et theatres, so restful for those who have taken a dislike 
> the spoken tongue. And for this totally deaf man, since 
ne loss of a sense adds as much beauty to the world as 
S acquisition, it is with ecstasy that he walks now upon 
a earth grown almost an Eden, in which sound has not 
et been created. The highest waterfalls unfold for his 
yes alone their ribbons of crystal, stiller than the glassy 
va, like the cascades of Paradise. As sound was for him 
efore his deafness the perceptible form in which the cause 
fa movement was draped, objects moved without sound 
semed to be being moved also without cause; deprived 
{ all resonant quality, they shew a spontaneous activity, 
em to be alive. They move, halt, become alight of their 
‘wn accord. Of their own accord they vanish in the air 


1 97 G 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


like the winged monsters of prehistoric days. In the so 
tary and unneighboured home of the deaf man the Servi! 
which, before his infirmity was complete, was alreac 
Shewing an increased discretion, was being carried on. 
silence, is now assured him with a sort of surreptitll 
deftness, by mutes, as at the court of a fairy-tale kin) 
And, as upon the stage, the building on which the 4 
man looks from his window—be it barracks, church, | 
town hall—is only so much scenery. If one day it shou: 
fall to the ground, it may emit a cloud of dust and lea 
visible ruins; but, less material even than a palace on t! 
stage, though it has not the same exiguity, it will subsi 
in the magic universe without letting the fall of its heay 
blocks of stone tarnish, with anything so vulgar as sour, 
the chastity of the prevailing silence. | 

The silence, though only relative, which reigned in t} 
little barrack-room where I sat waiting was now broil 
The door opened and Saint-Loup, dropping his eyeglas, 
dashed in. | 

“Ah, my dear Robert, you make yourself very cor: 
fortable here;” I said to him; “ how jolly it would be! 
one were allowed to dine and sleep here.” 

And to be sure, had it not been against the regulation, 
what repose untinged by sadness I could have tasted ther, 
guarded by that atmosphere of tranquillity, vigilance ail 
gaiety which was maintained by a thousand wills er 
trolled and free from care, a thousand heedless spirits, | 
that great community called a barracks where, time havi ! 
taken the form of action, the sad bell that tolled the hou; 
outside was replaced by the same joyous clarion of the 
martial calls, the ringing memory of which was kept p 
petually alive in the paved streets of the town, like t 


98 | 


| 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


¢st that floats in a sunbeam;—a voice sure of being 
lard, and musical because it was the command not only . 
¢authority to obedience but of wisdom to happiness. 
“So you’ld rather stay with me and sleep here, would 
yu, than go to the hotel by yourself?” Saint-Loup asked 
12, smiling. 

“Oh, Robert, it is cruel of you to be sarcastic about 
|’ I pleaded; “ you know it’s not possible, and you know 
tw wretched I shall be over there.” 

“Good! You flatter me!” he replied. “It occurred to 
{2 just now that you would rather stay here to-night. 
aid that is precisely what I stopped to ask the Captain.” 
“ And he has given you leave?” I cried. 

“He hadn’t the slightest objection.” 

Oh! I adore him!” 

“No; that would be going too far. But now, let me 
st get hold of my batman and tell him to see about our 
ner,” he went on, while I turned away so as to hide 
7 tears. 

We were several times interrupted by one or other of 
int-Loup’s friends’ coming in. He drove them all out 
ain. 

“ Get out of here. Buzz off!” 

I begged him to let them stay. 

I No, really; they would bore you stiff; they are abso- 
yely uncultured; all they can talk about is racing, or 
!bles shop. Besides, I don’t want them here either; 
y would spoil these precious moments I’ve been look- 
§ forward to. But you mustn’t think, when I tell you 
it these fellows are brainless, that everything military 
devoid of intellectuality. Far from it. We have a major 


‘te who is a splendid chap. He’s given us a course in 
P P g 


99 


| 
| 
| 
| 
| 
| 
| 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


which military history is treated like a demonstration, 1 
a problem in algebra. Even from the aesthetic point 
view there is a curious beauty, alternately inductive ai 
deductive, about it which you couldn’t fail to appreciat’ 
“That’s not the officer who’s given me leave to sti 
here to-night?” 
“No; thank God! The man you ‘adore’ for so ‘i 
trifling a service is the biggest fool that ever walk 
the face of the earth. He is perfect at looking after me) 
ing, and at kit inspections; he spends hours with % 
serjeant major and the master tailor. There you he 
his mentality. Apart from that he has a vast contem! 
like everyone here, for the excellent major I was tellik 
you about. No one will speak to him because he’s a fri 
mason and doesn’t go to confession. The Prince de Bo) 
dino would never have an outsider like that in his hou: 
Which is pretty fair cheek, when all’s said and done, fri 
a man whose great-grandfather was a small farmer, at 
who would probably be a small farmer himself if it e | 
been for the Napoleonic wars. Not that he hasn’t a lu. 
ing sense of his own rather ambiguous position in og 
where he’s neither flesh nor fowl. He hardly ever she‘ 
his face at the Jockey, it makes him feel so deuced av: 
ward, this so-called Prince,” added Robert, who, havi 
been led by the same spirit of imitation to adopt the soc 
theories of his teachers and the worldly prejudices of | 
relatives, had unconsciously wedded the democratic love! 
humanity to a contempt for the nobility of the Empire. 
I was looking at the photograph of his aunt, and 4 
thought that, since Saint-Loup had this photograph in 
possession, he might perhaps give it to me, made me t 
all the fonder of him and hope to do him a thousa 
100 


‘ 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


ervices, which seemed to me a very small exchange for it. 
sor this photograph was like one encounter more, added 
» all those that I had already had, with Mme. de Guer- 
jantes; better still, a prolonged encounter, as if, by some 
udden stride forward in our relations, she had stopped 
eside me, in a garden hat, and had allowed me for the 
yst time to gaze at my leisure at that plump cheek, that 
jched neck, that tapering eyebrow (veiled from me 
\therto by the swiftness of her passage, the bewilder- 
: 


ent of my impressions, the imperfection of memory) ; 
ad the contemplation of them, as well as of the bare 
oem and arms of a woman whom I had never seen 
ve in a high-necked and long-sleeved bodice, was to me 
voluptuous discovery, a priceless favour. Those lines, 
aich had seemed to me almost a forbidden spectacle, I 
juld study there, as in a text-book of the only geometry 
lat had any value for me. Later on, when I looked at 
jabert, I noticed that he too was a little like the photo- 
aph of his aunt, and by a mysterious process which I 
ind almost as moving, since, if his face had not been 
vectly created by hers, the two had nevertheless a com- 
pn origin. The features of the Duchesse de Guermantes, 
uch were pinned to my vision of Combray, the nose like 
‘alcon’s beak, the piercing eyes, seemed to have served 
O as a pattern for the cutting out—in another copy 
alogous and slender, with too delicate a skin—of 
ibert’s face, which might almost be superimposed upon 
/aunt’s. I saw in him, with a keen longing, those fea- 
es characteristic of the Guermantes, of that race which 
1 remained so individual in the midst of a world with 
ich it was not confounded, in which it remained isolated 
the glory of an ornithomorphic divinity, for it seemed 
IOI 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


‘to have been the issue, in the age of mythology, of t 
union of a goddess with a bird. 
Robert, without being aware of its cause, was touch| 
by my evident affection. This was moreover increased |; 
the sense of comfort inspired in me by the heat of t 
fire and by the champagne which bedewed at the sar 
time my brow with beads of sweat and my cheeks wit 
tears; it washed down the partridges; I ate mine with ty 
hiiab wonder of a profane mortal of any sort when } 
finds in a form of life with which he is not familiar whi 
he has supposed that form of life to exclude—the wond) 
for instance, of an atheist who sits down to an exquisite 
cooked dinner in a presbytery. And next morning, whi 
I awoke, I rose and went to cast from Saint-Loup’s wi 
dow, which being at a great height overlooked the wh : 
countryside, a curious scrutiny to make the acquainta : 
of my new neighbour, the landscape which I had not bet 
able to distinguish the day before, having arrived too la} 
at an hour when it was already sleeping beneath the o . 
spread cloak of night. And yet, early as it had awoki 
from its sleep, I could see the ground, when I opened 
window and looked out, only as one sees it from the wi 
dow a country house, overlooking the lake, shrouded s1 
in its soft white morning gown of mist which scarce 
allowed me to make out anything at all. But I knew th, 
before the troopers who were busy with their horses! 
the square had finished grooming them, it would ha 
cast its gown aside. In the meantime, I could see only; 
meagre hill, rearing close up against the side of the b: 
racks a back eendy swept clear of darkness, rough ai 
wrinkled. Through the transparent curtain of frost I cou 
not take my eyes from this stranger who, too, was looki 
102 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


'tme for the first time. But when I had formed the habit 
f coming to the barracks, my consciousness that the hill 
vas there, more real, consequently, even when I did not 
se it, than the hotel at Balbec, than our house in Paris, 
f which I thought as of absent—or dead—friends, that 
; to say without any strong belief in their existence, 
rought it about that, even although I was not aware of 
myself, its reflected shape outlined itself on the slightest 
npressions that I formed at Donciéres, and among them, 
» begin with this first morning, on the pleasing impres- 
‘on of warmth given me by the cup of chocolate prepared 
y Saint-Loup’s batman in this comfortable room, which 
ad the effect of being an optical centre from which to 
sok out at the hill—the idea of there being anything else 
» do but Just gaze at it, the idea of actually climbing it 
sing rendered impossible by this same mist. Tinbibige 
ne shape of the hill, associated with the taste of hot 
hocolate and with the whole web of my fancies at that 
articular time, this mist, without my having thought at 
1 about it, succeeded in moistening all my subsequent 
1oughts about that period, just as a massive and un- 
elting lump of gold had remained allied to my impres- 
‘ons of Balbec, or as the proximity of the outside stairs 
‘blackish sandstone gave a grey background to my im- 
Tessions of Biase It did not, however, persist late . 
ito the day; the sun began by hurling at it, in vain, a 
'w darts which sprinkled it with brilliants before they 
jally overcame it. The hill might expose its grizzled 
‘mp to the sun’s rays, which, an hour later,’ when I went 
wn to the town, gave to the russet tints of the autumn 
aves, to the reds and blues of the election posters pasted 
‘the walls an exaltation which raised my spirits also 
103 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


and made me stamp, singing as I went, on the pavemen 
from which I could hardly keep myself from jumping 
the air for joy. 

But after that first night I had to sleep at the hote 
And I knew beforehand that I was doomed to find thei 
sorrow. It was like an unbreathable aroma which all 
life long had been exhaled for me by every new bedroor| 
that is to say by every bedroom; in the one which | 
usually occupied I was not present, my mind rena 
elsewhere, and in its place sent only the sense of familia 
ity. But I could not employ this servant, less sensitiy 
than myself, to look after things for me in a new plac 
where I preceded him, where I arrived by myself, where 
must bring into contact with its environment that “ Self 
which I rediscovered only at year-long intervals, but a) 
ways the same, having not grown at all since Combra 
since my first arrival at Balbec, weeping, without ar 
possibility of consolation, on the edge of an unpacke 
trunk. | 

As it happened, I was mistaken. I had no time 5 | 
sad, for I was not left alone for an instant. The fact 
the matter was that there remained of the old palad 
superfluous refinement of structure and decoration, out! 
place in a modern hotel, which, released from the servi 
of any practical purpose, had in its long spell of leisu’ 
acquired a sort of life: passages winding about in all d 
rections, which one was continually crossing in their aif 
less wanderings, lobbies as long as corridors and as orna 
as drawing-rooms, which had the air rather of bem 
dwellers there themselves than of forming part of a dwe 
ing, which could not be induced to enter and settle dow 
in any of the rooms but wandered about outside mine ar 

104. 


ee 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


ime up at once to offer me their company—neighbours 
"a sort, idle but never noisy, menial ghosts of the 
ast who had been granted the privilege of staying, pro- 
ded they kept quiet, by the doors of the rooms which 
ere let to visitors, and who, every time that I came across 
sem, greeted me with a silent deference. In short, the 
ea of a lodging, of simply a case for our existence from 
wy to day which shields us only from the cold and frem 
zing overlooked by other people, was absolutely inap- 
_\icable to this house, an assembly of rooms as real as a 
vlony of people, living, it was true, in silence, but things 
hich one was obliged to meet, to avoid, to appreciate, 
one came in. One tried not to disturb them, and one 
suld not look without respect at the great drawing-room 
hich had formed, far back in the eighteenth century, 
ie habit of stretching itself at its ease, among its hangings 
( old gold and beneath the clouds of its painted ceiling. 
.ad one was seized with a more personal curiosity as to 
je smaller rooms which, without any regard for sym- 
etry, ran all round it, innumerable, startled, fleeing in 
sorder as far as the garden, to which they had so easy 
i access down three broken steps. 

Tf I wished to go out or to come in without taking the 
t or being seen from the main staircase, a smaller private 
urcase, no longer in use, offered me its steps so skil- 
lly arranged, one close above another, that there seemed 
, exist in their gradation a perfect proportion of the 
me kind as those which, in colours, scents, savours, 
-€n arouse in us a peculiar, sensuous pleasure. But the 
2asure to be found in going up and downstairs I had had 
come here to learn, as once before to a health resort 
‘the Alps to find that the act—as a rule not noticed— 
105 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


of drawing breath could be a perpetual delight. I receive) 
that dispensation from effort which is granted to us onl) 
by the things to which long use has accustomed us, whe} 
I set my feet for the first time on those steps, familia 
before ever I knew them, as if they possessed, deposite; 
on them, perhaps, embodied in them by the masters ¢ 
long ago whom they used to welcome every day, th 
prospective: charm of habits which I had not yet cor 
tracted and which indeed could only grow weaker on¢ 
they had become my own. I looked into a room; th 
double doors closed themselves behind me, the hanging 
let in a silence in which I felt myself invested with a so) 
of exhilarating royalty; a marble mantelpiece with orni 
ments of wrought brass—of which one would have bee! 
wrong to think that its sole idea was to represent th 
art of the Directory—offered me a fire, and a little eas) 
chair on short legs helped me to warm myself as com 
fortably as if I had been sitting on the hearthrug. TI 
walls held the room in a close embrace, separating it froi 
the rest of the world and, to let in, to enclose what mac 
it complete, parted to make way for the bookcase, ri 
served a place for the bed, on either side of which } 
column airily upheld the Eh ceiling of the alcove. An 
the room was prolonged in depth by two closets as larg 
as itself, the latter of which had hanging from its wa 
to scent the occasion on which one had recourse to it, 
voluptuous rosary of orris-roots; the doors, if I left the 
open when I withdrew into this innermost retreat, wei 
not content with tripling its dimensions without its cea 
ing to be well-proportioned, and not only allowed m 
eyes to enjoy the delights of extension after those of co! 
centration, but added further to the pleasure of my so] 

106 ; 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


ude, which, while still inviolable, was no longer shut in, 
he sense of liberty. This closet looked out upon a court- 
ard, a fair solitary stranger whom I was glad to have for 

neighbour when next morning my eyes fell on her, a 
aptive between her high walls in which no other window 
pened, with nothing but two yellowing trees which were 
ough to give a pinkish softness to the pure sky above. 
| Before going to bed I decided to leave the room in order 
9 explore the whole of my fairy kingdom. I walked down 
‘long gallery which did me homage successively with all 
at it had to offer me if I could not sleep, an armchair 
laced waiting in a corner, a spinet, on a table against the 
yall, a bowl of blue crockery filled with cinerarias, and, 
aan old frame, the phantom of a lady of long ago whose 
jowdered hair was starred with blue flowers, holding in 
er hand a bunch of carnations. When I came to the end, 
ne bare wall in which no door opened said to me simply: 
‘Now you must turn and go back, but, you see, you are 
t home here, the house is yours,” while the soft carpet, 
ot to be left out, added that if I did not sleep that night 
could easily come in barefoot, and the unshuttered win- 
ows, looking out over the open country, assured me that 
tey would hold a sleepless vigil and that, at whatever 
our I chose to come in, I need not be afraid of dis- 
rbing anyone. And behind a hanging curtain I surprised 
aly a little closet which, stopped by the wall and unable 
y escape any farther, had hidden itself there with a guilty 
mscience and gave me a frightened stare from its little 
»und window, glowing blue in the moonlight. I went to 
2d, but the presence of the eiderdown quilt, of the pillars, 
the neat fireplace, by straining my attention to a pitch 
"yond that of Paris, prevented me from letting myself 

107 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


go upon my habitual train of fancies. And as it is thi 
particular state of strained attention that enfolds ov 
slumbers, acts upon them, modifies them, brings them int 
line/with this or that series of past impressions, the image 
that filled my dreams that first night were borrowed from) 
memory entirely distinct from that on which I was in th 
habit of drawing. If I had been tempted while asleep t 
let myself be swept back upon my ordinary current ¢ 
remembrance, the bed to which I was not accustomed, th’ 
comfortable attention which I was obliged to pay to th 
position of my various limbs when I turned over wer 
sufficient to correct my error, to disentangle and to kee 
running the new thread of my dreams. It is the sam 
with sleep as with our perception of the external world. ] 
needs only a modification in our habits to make it poeti: 
it is enough that while undressing we should have doze 
off unconsciously upon the bed, for the dimensions of ot 
dream-world to be altered and its beauty felt. We awaki 
look at our watch, see “four o’clock”; it is only fou 
o’clock in the morning, but we imagine that the whol 
day has gone by, so vividly does this nap of a few minute) 
unsought by us, appear to have come down to us fror 
the skies, by virtue of some divine right, full-bodiec 
vast, like an Emperor’s orb of gold. In the morning, whil 
worrying over the thought that my grandfather was ready 
and was waiting for me to start on our walk along th 
Méséglise way, I was awakened by the blare of a regi 
_mental band which passed every day beneath my wit 
dows. But on several occasions—and I mention these be: 
cause one cannot properly describe human life unless on 
shews it soaked in the sleep in which it plunges, whicl 
night after night, sweeps round it as a promontory i 

108 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


neircled by the sea—the intervening layer of sleep was 
trong enough to bear the shock of the music and I heard 


-jothing. On the other mornings it gave way for a mo- 
nent; but, still velvety with the refreshment of having 


_lept, my consciousness (like those organs by which, after 
| local anaesthetic, a cauterisation, not perceived at first, 
felt only at the very end and then as a faint burning 
jmart) was touched only gently by the shrill points of 
|ne fifes which caressed it with a vague, cool, matutinal 
| varbling; and after this brief interruption in which the 


-ilence Hed turned to music it relapsed into my slumber 
: T° even the dragoons had finished passing, depriving 


. 
a 


: 


ae of the latest opening buds of the sparkling clangorous 
vosegay. And the zone of my consciousness which its 
(pringing stems had brushed was so narrow, so cir- 
wumscribed with sleep that later on, when Saint- -Loup 
ssked me whether I had heard the Banal I was no longer 
‘ertain that the sound of its brasses had not been as imagi- 
ary as that which I heard during the day echo, after the 
lightest noise, from the paved streets of the town. Per- 
‘aps I had heard it only in a dream, prompted by my 
ear of being awakened, or else of not being awakened and 
9 not seeing the regiment march past. For often, when 
/was still asleep at the moment when, on the contrary, I 
lad supposed that the noise would awaken me, for the 
‘ext hour I imagined that I was awake, while still drows- 
ag, and I enacted to myself with tenuous shadow-shapes 
m the screen of my slumber the various scenes of which 
: deprived me but at which I had the illusion of looking * 
im. 

' What one has meant to do during the day, as it turns 
ut, sleep intervening, one accomplishes only in one’s 

109 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


dreams, that is to say after it has been distorted by slee! 
into following another line than one would have chose 
when awake. The same story branches off and has a di 
ferent ending. When all is said, the world in which we liv) 
when we are asleep is so different that people who ha | 
difficulty in going to sleep seek first of all to escape fror 
the waking world. After having desperately, for hours o} 
end, with shut eyes, revolved in their minds thoughts sim} 
lar to those which they would have had with their eye 
open, they take heart again on noticing that the last minut 
has been crawling under the weight of an argument i) 
formal contradiction of the laws of thought, and thei 
realisation of this, and the brief “absence” to which j) 
points, indicate that the door is now open through whic; 
they will perhaps be able, presently, to escape from th 
perception of the real, to advance to a resting-place mor! 
or less remote on the other side, which will mean the 
having a more or less “ good” night. But already a greg| 
stride has been made when we turn our back on the rea’ 
when we reach the cave in which “ auto-suggestions ” pre 
pare—like witches—the hell-broth of imaginary maladie 
or of the recurrence of nervous disorders, and watch fc 
the hour at which the storm that has been gathering durin! 
our unconscious sleep will break with sufficient force t| 
make sleep cease. A 
Not far thence is the secret garden in which grow lik 
strange flowers the kinds of sleep, so different one fror 
another, the sleep induced by datura, by the multiple ey) 
tracts of ether, the sleep of belladonna, of opium, ¢ 
valerian, flowers whose petals remain shut until the da) 
when the predestined visitor shall come and, touchin 
them, bid them open, and for long hours inhale the arom) 
110 


—~ 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


# their peculiar dreams into a marvelling and bewildered 
veing. At the end of the garden stands the convent with 
pen windows through which we hear voices repeating the 
essons learned before we went to sleep, which we shall 
mow only at the moment of awakening; while, a presage 
if that moment, sounds the resonant tick of that inward 
Jarum which our preoccupation has so effectively regu- 
ated that when our housekeeper comes in with the warn- 
ag: “It is seven o’clock,” she will find us awake and 
eady. On the dim walls of that chamber which opens 
pon our dreams, within which toils without ceasing that 
blivion of the sorrows of love whose task, interrupted and 
rought to nought at times by a nightmare big with 
miniscence, is ever speedily resumed, hang, even after we 
te awake, the memories of our dreams, but so over- 
jaadowed that often we catch sight of them for the 
st time only in the broad light of the afternoon when 
ae ray of a similar idea happens by chance to strike 
vem; some of them brilliant and harmonious while 
¢ slept, but already so distorted that, having failed 
» recognise them, we can but hasten to lay them in 
le earth like dead bodies too quickly decomposed or 
ics so seriously damaged, so nearly crumbling into 
Ist that the most skilful restorer could not bring them 
ack to their true form or make anything of them. 
ear the gate is the quarry to which our _ heavier 
ambers repair in search of substances which coat the 
‘ain with so unbreakable a glaze that, to awaken the 
reper, his own will is obliged, even on a golden morn- 
8, to smite him with mighty blows, like a young 
egiried. Beyond this, again, are the nightmares of which 
2 doctors foolishly assert that they tire us more than 
III 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


does insomnia, whereas on the contrary they enable tl 
thinker to escape from the strain of thought; those nig 
mares with their fantastic picture-books in which 0) 
relatives who are dead are shewn meeting with a serio 
accident which at the same time does not preclude the 
speedy recovery. Until then we keep them in a little ra 
cage, in which they are smaller than white mice and, co 
ered with big red spots, out of each of which a feath 
sprouts, engage us in Ciceronian dialogues. Next — 
this picture-book is the revolving disc of awakening, 1 
virtue of which we submit for a moment to the tedium 
having to return at once to a house which was pull 
down fifty years ago, the memory of which is gradual 
effaced as sleep grows more distant by a number of other 
until we arrive at that memory which the disc presen 
only when it has ceased to revolve and which coincid 
with what we shall see with opened eyes. 

Sometimes I had heard nothing, being in one of tho 
slumbers into which we fall as into a pit from which v 
are heartily glad to be drawn up a little later, heavy, ove 
fed, digesting all that has been brought to us (as by t! 
nymphs Hs fed the infant Hercules) by those agi 
vegetative powers whose activity is doubled while ¥ 
sleep. 

That kind of sleep is called “sleeping like lead”, at 
it seems as though one has become, oneself, and remai 
for a few moments after such a sleep is ended, simply 
leaden image. One is no longer a person. How then, see 
ing for one’s mind, one’s personality, as one seeks for 
thing that is lost, does one recover one’s own self rath 
chen any other? Why, when one begins again to think, 
it not another personality than yesterday’s that is i 

112 


| 


—— SS 


ee 


se 


os ead 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


arnate in one? One fails to see what can dictate the 


i] 


hoice, or why, among the millions of human beings any 


ne of whom one might be, it is on him who one was over- 
ight that unerringly one lays one’s hand? What is it 
qat guides us, when there has been an actual interruption 
-whether it be that our unconsciousness has been com- 
lete or our dreams entirely different from ourself? There 
‘as indeed been death, as when the heart has ceased to 
eat and a rhythmical friction of the tongue revives us. 
fo doubt the room, even if we have seen it only once 


efore, awa awakens ‘memories to which other, older memories 


ing. a Ory were some memoriés also asleep 1 in us of which 
' now become conscious? The resurrection at our 


en Wwe recapture a name, a line, a refrain that we had 
zath is to be conceived as a phenomenon of memory. 


ty—but discouraged by the chill—of those last autumn 
ornings, so luminous and so cold, in which winter begins, 
get up and look at the trees on which the leaves were 
dicated now only by a few strokes, golden or rosy, which 
emed to have been left in the air, on an invisible web, 
raised my head from the pillow and stretched my neck, 


‘eping my body still hidden beneath the bedclothes; like 
chrysalis i in the process of change I was a dual creature, 
ith the different parts of which a single environment did 
ot agree; for my eyes colour was sufficient, without 
armth; my chest on the other hand was anxious for 


wakening—after that healing attack of mental alienation | 
hich i is ‘egaecsabee after all be similar to what occurs | 


irgotten. And perhaps fis resurrection of the soul after 


‘When I had finished sleeping, tempted by the sunlit~ 


armth and not for colour. I rose only after my fire had | 


en lighted, and studied the picture, so delicate and 
I Pres H 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


transparent, of the pink and golden morning, to which 
had now added by artificial means the element of warmt 
that it lacked, poking my fire which burned and smal 
like a good pipe and gave me, as a pipe would have give 
me, a pleasure at once coarse because it was based upon 
material comfort and delicate because beyond it we 
printed a pure vision. The walls of my dressing-roo) 
were covered with a paper on which a violent red bael 
ground was patterned with black and white flowers, { 
which it seemed that I should have some difficulty i 
growing accustomed. But they succeeded only in strilal 
me as novel, in forcing me to enter not into conflict bi 
into contact with them, in modulating the gaiety, th 
songs of my morning toilet, they succeeded only in in 
prisoning me in the heart of a sort of poppy, out of whic 
to look at a world which I saw quite differently frot 
in Paris, from the gay screen which was this ne 
dwelling-place, of a different aspect from the house of m 
parents, and into which flowed a purer air. On certai 
days, I was agitated by the desire to see my grandmothr 
again, or by the fear that she might be ill, or else it we 
the memory of some undertaking which I had left hal 
finished in Paris, and which seemed to have made ni 
progress; sometimes again it was some difficulty in whic] 
even here, I had managed to become involved. One « 
other of these anxieties hed kept me from sleeping, and 
was without strength to face my sorrow which in a the 
' ment grew to fill tke whole of my existence.! Then fro | 
the hotel I sent a messenger to the barracks, with a line1 
Saint-Loup: I told him that, should it be materially po 
sible—I knew that it was extremely difficult for him—| 
should be most grateful if he would look in for a minut 


114 


OO ee OO oe 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


An hour later he arrived; and on hearing his ring at the 
coor I felt myself liberated from my obsessions. I knew 
hat, if they were stronger than I, he was stronger than 
hey, and my attention was diverted from them and con- 
entrated on him who would have to settle them. He had 
ome into the room, and already he had enveloped me in 
he gust of fresh air in which from before dawn he had 
een displaying so much activity, a vital atmosphere very 
ifferent from that of my room, to which I at once adapted 
ayself by appropriate reactions. 

_“T hope you weren’t angry with me for bothering you; 
nere is something that is worrying me, as you probably 
essed.” 

“Not at all; I just supposed you wanted to see me, and 
thought it very nice of you. I was delighted that you 
aould have sent for me. But what is the trouble? Things 
ot going well? What can I do to Belo? 

He listened to my explanations, and gave careful an- 
vers; but before he had uttered a word he had trans- 
ormed me to his own likeness; compared with the im- 
artant occupations which kept him so busy, so alert, so 
ippy, the worries which, a moment ago, I had been un- 
dle to endure for another instant seemed to me as to 
m negligible; I was like a man who, not having been 
le to open his eyes for some days, sends for a doctor, 

ho neatly and gently raises his eyelid, removes from be- 

vath it and shews him a grain of sand; the sufferer is 

saled and comforted. All my cares resolved themselves 

i: a telegram which Saint-Loup undertook to dispatch. 

-fe seemed to me so different, so delightful; I was flooded 

\th such a surfeit of strength that I longed for action. 

“What are you doing now?” I asked him. 

115 


4 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


“T must leave you, I’m afraid; we’re going on a rout 
march in three quarters of an hour, and I have to be ° 
parade.” 

“Then it’s been a great bother to you, coming hee 

“No, no bother at all, the Captain was very good abow 
it; he told me that if it was for you | must go at onc¢ 
but you understand, I don’t like to seem to be abusing tl 
privilege.” | 

“ But if I got up and dressed quickly and went by my 
self to the place where you'll be training, it would intel 
me immensely, and I could perhaps talk to you durir| 
the breaks.” 

“T shouldn’t advise you to do that; you have bee 
lying awake, racking your brains over a thing which, 
assure you, is not of the slightest importance, but no 
that it has ceased to worry you, lay your head down ¢ 
the pillow and go to sleep, which you will find an excelle| 
antidote to the demineralisation of your nerve-cells; on| 
you mustn’t go to sleep too soon, because our band-bo! 
will be coming along under your windows; but as soon } 
they’ve passed I think you'll be left in peace, and ¥ 
shall meet again this evening, at dinner.” 

But soon I was constantly going to see the regime} 
being trained in field operations, when I began to take | 
interest in the military theories which Saint-Loup’s frien} 
used to expound over the dinner-table, and when it hl 
become the chief desire of my life to see at close quarté 
their various leaders, just as a person who makes mut 
his principal study and spends his life in the concert ha} 
finds pleasure in frequenting the cafés in which 0: 
mingles with the life of the members of the orchestra, 4 
reach the training ground I used to have to take ti 

116 


| 
| THE GUERMANTES WAY 


aendously long walks. In the evening after dinner the 
ging for sleep made my head drop every now and then 
3in aswoon. Next morning I realised that I had no more 
eard the band than, at Balbec, after the evenings on 
vhich Saint-Loup had taken me to dinner at Rivebelle, 
vused to hear the concert on the beach. And at the mo- 
hag when I wished to rise I had a delicious feeling of 
capacity; I felt myself fastened to a deep, invisible 
round by the articulations (of which my tiredness made 
e conscious) of muscular and nutritious roots. I felt 
yself full of strength; life seemed to extend more amply 
afore me; this was because I had reverted to the good 
redness of my childhood at Combray on the mornings 
llowing days on which we had taken the Guermantes 
alk. Poets make out that we recapture for a moment the 
lf that we were long ago when we enter some house or 
arden in which we used to live in our youth. But these 
ve most hazardous pilgrimages, which end as often in 
sappointment as in success. The fixed places, contem- 
prary with different years, it is in ourselves that we 
jould rather seek to find them. This is where the advan- 
ige comes in, to a certain extent, of great exhaustion fol- 
jwed by a good night’s rest. Good nights, to make us 
escend into the most subterranean galleries of sleep, 
jaere no reflexion from overnight, no gleam of memory 
(mes to lighten the inward monologue (if so be that it 
jase not also), turn so effectively the soil and break 
(rough the surface stone of our body that we discover 
ere, where our muscles dive down and throw out their 
:& roots and breathe the air of the new life, the garden 


i which as a child we used to play. There is no need to 
lavel in order to see it again; we must dig down inwardly 


117 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


to discover it. What once covered the earth is no long) 
upon it but beneath; a mere excursion does not suffice f} 
a visit to the dead city, excavation is necessary also. B. 
we shall see how certain impressions, fugitive and fc. 
tuitous, carry us back even more effectively to the pai 
with a more delicate precision, with a flight more ligt: 
winged, more immaterial, more headlong, more unerrir| 
more immortal than these organic dislocations. | 

Sometimes my exhaustion was greater still; I had, wit; 
out any opportunity of going to bed, been following t! 
operations for several days on end. How blessed thi 
was my return to the hotel! As I got into bed I seem} 
to have escaped at last from the hands of enchante} 
sorcerers like those who people the “romances ” belovk 
of our forebears in the seventeenth century. My sle) 
that night and the lazy morning that followed it were ; 
more than a charming fairy tale. Charming; benefice 
perhaps also. I reminded myself that the,keenest sufly 
ings have their place of sanctuary, that one can alway 


me far. | 
On days when, although there was no parade, Sats 
Loup had to stay in barracks, ! used often to go and vi 


immense view. A one breeze blew almost always on 
this high ground, and filled all the buildings erected 1 
three sides of the barrack-square, which howled incessan} 
like a cave of the winds. While I waited for Robert 
being engaged on some duty or other—outside the du 
of his room or in the mess, talking to some of his frierj 
to whom he had introduced me (and whom later or. 

118 | 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


ame now and then to see, even when he was not to be 
iere), looking down from the window three hundred feet 
) the country below, bare now except where recently 
own fields, often still soaked with rain and glittering 
1 the sun, shewed a few stripes of green, of the brilliance 
nd translucent limpidity of enamel, I could hear him 
iscussed by the others, and I soon learned what a 
opular favourite he was. Among many of the volunteers, 
elonging to other squadrons, sons of rich business or 
tofessional men who looked at the higher aristocratic 
beicty only from outside and without penetrating its en- 
‘osure, the attraction which they naturally felt towards 
that they knew of Saint-Loup’s character was reinforced 
y the distinction that attached in their eyes to the young 
an whom, on Saturday evenings, when they went on pass. 
) Paris, they had seen supping in the Café de la Paix 
ath the Duc d’Uzés and the Prince d’Orléans. And on 
‘at account, into his handsome face, his casual way of 
falking and saluting officers, the perpetual dance of his 
veglass, the affectation shewn in the cut of his service 
ess—the caps always too high, the breeches of too fine 
‘cloth and too pink a shade—they had introduced the 
ea of a “tone” which, they were positive, was lacking 
the best turned-out officers in the regiment, even the 
ajestic Captain to whom I had been indebted for the 
ivilege of sleeping in barracks, who seemed, in com- 
‘Tison, too pompous and almost common. 

One of them said that the Captain had bought a new 
tse. “ He can buy as many horses as he likes. I passed 
int-Loup on Sunday morning in the Allée des Acacias; 
tw he’s got some style on a horse!” replied his com- 
nion, and knew what he was talking about, for these 


119 


q 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


rt 
young fellows belonged to a class which, if it does not fre 
quent the same houses and know the same people, ye| 
thanks to money and leisure, does not differ from th 
nobility in its experience of all those refinements of lif 
which money can procure. At any rate their refinemer 
had, in the matter of clothes, for instance, something abou 
it more studied, more impeccable than that free and eas. 
negligence which had so delighted my grandmother i 
Saint-Loup. It gave quite a thrill to these sons of bi 
stockbrokers or bankers, as they sat eating oysters afte 
the theatre, to see at an adjoining table Serjeant Sain’ 
Loup. And what a tale there was to tell in barracks o) 
Monday night, after a week-end leave, by one of thet 
who was in Robert’s squadron, and to whom he had sai 
how d’ye do “ most civilly ”, while another, who was ni 
in the same squadron, was quite positive that, in spite ¢ 
this, Saint-Loup had recognised him, for two or thre 
times he had put up fe eyeglass and stared in tt 
speaker’s direction. | 
“Yes, my brother saw him at the Paix,” said anothe| 
who had been spending the day with his mistress; “m| 
brother BOG his dress coat was cut too loose and digs 
fit him.” | 
“What was the waistcoat like? ” 
“He wasn’t wearing a white waistcoat; it was purpl| 
with sort of palms on it; stunning!” | 
To the “ old soldiers (sons of the soil who had nev 
heard of the Jockey Club and simply put Saint-Loup i 
the category of ultra-rich non-commissioned officers, j 
which they included all those who, whether bankrupt ¢ 
not, lived in a certain style, whose income or debts ra 
into several figures, and who were generous towards the 
120 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


en), the gait, the eyeglass, the breeches, the caps of Saint 
‘oup, even if they saw in them nothing particularly aris- 
‘cratic, furnished nevertheless just as much interest and 
veaning. They recognized in these peculiarities the char- 
ster, the style which they had assigned once and for all 
‘ne to this most popular of the “ stripes ” in the regiment, 
‘anners like no one’s else, scornful indifference to what 
8 superior officers might think, which seemed to them 
‘e natural corollary of his goodness to his subordinates. 
‘he morning cup of coffee in the canteen, the afternoon 
lay-down ” in the barrack-room seemed pleasanter, 
{mehow, when some old soldier fed the hungering, lazy 
{ction with some savoury tit-bit as to a cap in which 
jint-Loup had appeared on parade. 

“Tt was the height of my pack.” 

“Come off it, old chap, you don’t expect us to believe 
fat; it couldn’t have been the height of your pack,” in- 
irrupted a young college graduate who hoped by using 
ese slang terms not to appear a “ learned beggar”, and 
‘ venturing on this contradiction to obtain confirmation 
a fact the thought of which enchanted him. 

“Oh, so it wasn’t the height of my pack, wasn’t it? 
jou measured it, I suppose! I tell you this much, the 
( O. glared at it as if he’ld have liked to put him in clink. 
hit you needn’t think the great Saint-Loup felt squashed; 
, he went and he came, and down with his head and 
’ with his head, and that blinking glass screwed in 
3 eye all the time. We’ll see what the ‘ Capstan’ has to 
éy when he hears. Oh, very likely he’ll say nothing, but 
)u may be sure he won’t be pleased. But there’s nothing 
¢ wonderful about that cap. I hear he’s got thirty of ’em 
‘d more at home, at his house in town.” 

121 


* 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


“Where did you hear that, old man? From our blaste 
corporal-dog?” asked the young graduate, pedanticall 
displaying the new forms of speech which he had onl 
recently acquired and with which he took a pride i 
garnishing his conversation. | 

“Where did I hear it? From his batman; what d’yo 
think? ” 

“ Ah! Now you're talking. That’s a chap who knoy 
when he’s well off!” 

“T should say so! He’s got more in his pocket than 
have, certain sure! And besides he gives him all his ow 
things, and everything. He wasn’t getting his grub pro 
erly, he says. Along comes de Saint-Loup, and giw 
cooky hell: ‘I want him to be properly fed, d’you hear 
he says, ‘and I don’t care what it costs.’ ” 

The old soldier made up for the triviality of the wor 
quoted by the emphasis of his tone, in a feeble imitatic 
of the speaker which had an immense success. 

On leaving the barracks I would take a stroll, and the 
to fill up the time before I went, as I did every evenin 
to dine with Saint-Loup at the hotel in which he and h 
friends had established their mess, I made for my ow 
as soon as the sun had set, so as to have a couple of hou 
in which to rest and read. In the Square, the evening lig 
bedecked the pepper-pot turrets of the castle with litt 
pink clouds which matched the colour of the bricks, at 
completed the harmony by softening the tone of 
latter where it bathed them. So strong a current of vitali 
coursed through my nerves that no amount of moveme 
on my part could exhaust it; each step I took, after touc 
ing a stone of the pavement, rebounded off it, I seem 
to have growing on my heels the wings of Mercury. O 

122 


rh 

i. 
i 
x, 


| 


the fountains was filled with a ruddy glow, while in 
e other the moonlight had already begun to turn the 
ater opalescent. Between them were children at play, 
tering shrill cries, wheeling in circles, obeying some 
‘cessity of the hour, like swifts or bats. Next door to 
é hotel, the old National Courts and the Louis XVI 
angery, in which were installed now the savings-bank 
id the Army Corps headquarters, were lighted from 
thin by the palely gilded globes of their gas-jets which, 
en in the still clear daylight outside, suited those vast, 
ll, eighteenth-century windows from which the last rays 
the setting sun had not yet departed, as would have 
ited a complexion heightened with rouge a headdress of 
low tortoise-shell, and persuaded me to seek out my 
feside and the lamp which, alone in the shadowy front 
(my hotel, was striving to resist the gathering darkness, 
ad for the sake of which I went indoors before it was 
cite dark, for pleasure, as to an appetising meal. I kept, 
tien I was in my room, the same fulness of sensation 
at I had felt outside. It gave such an apparent convexity 
surface to things which as a rule seem flat and empty, 
the yellow flame of the fire, the coarse blue paper on 
2 ceiling, on which the setting sun had scribbled cork- 
sews and whirligigs, like a schoolboy with a piece of red 
alk, the curiously patterned cloth on the round table, 
-which a ream of essay paper and an inkpot lay in 
idiness for me, with one of Bergotte’s novels, that ever 
ice then these things have continued to seem to me to 
enriched with a whole form of existence which I feel 
at I should be able to extract from them if it were 
anted me to set eyes on them again. I thought with 
}7 of the barracks that I had just left and of their 
123 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 
: 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


weather-cock turning with every wind that blew. Like | 
diver breathing through a pipe which rises above the su 
face of the water, I felt that I was in a sense maintainir 
contact with a healthy, open-air life when I kept as a Ht 
ing-place those barracks, that towering observatory, dom 
nating a country-side furrowed with canals of gre¢ 
enamel, into whose various buildings I esteemed as a % 
less privilege, which I hoped would last, my freedom to ¢ 
whenever I chose, always certain of a welcome. 

At seven o’clock I dressed myself and went out aga 
to dine with Saint-Loup at the hotel where he took h 
meals. I liked to go there on foot. It was by now pite 
dark, and after the third day of my visit there began 1 
blow, as soon as night had fallen, an icy wind whic 
seemed a harbinger of snow. As I walked, I ought ne 
strictly speaking, to have ceased for a moment to thir 
of Mme. de Guermantes; it was only in the attempt # 
draw nearer to her that I had come to visit Robert’s ga 
rison. But a memory, a grief, are fleeting things. There a’ 
days when they remove so far that we are barely conscio) 
of them, we think that they have gone for ever. Then w 
pay attention to other things. And the streets of this tow 
had not yet become for me what streets are in the play 
where one is accustomed to live, simply means of con 
munication between one part and another. The life le 
by the inhabitants of this unknown world must, it seem( 
to me, be a marvellous thing, and often the lighted wil 
dows of some dwelling-house kept me standing for a lor 
while motionless in the darkness by laying before my ey: 
the actual and mysterious scenes of an existence into whi 
I might not penetrate. Here the fire-spirit displayed — 
me in purple colouring the booth of a chestnut seller 


124 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


which a couple of serjeants, their belts slung over the 
vacks of chairs, were playing cards, never dreaming that 
magician’s wand was making them emerge from the 
light, like a transparency on the stage, and presenting 
hem in their true lineaments at that very moment to the 
yes of an arrested passer-by whom they could not see. 
na little curiosity shop a candle, burned almost to its 
ocket, projecting its warm glow over an engraving re- 
tinted it in sanguine, while, battling against the dark- 
‘ess, the light of the big lamp tanned a scrap of leather, 
alaid a dagger with fiery spangles, on pictures which 
vere only bad copies spread a priceless film of gold like 
ae patina of time or the varnish used by a master, made 
a fact of the whole hovel, in which there was nothing but 
inchbeck rubbish, a marvellous composition by Rem- 
randt. Sometimes I lifted my gaze to some huge old 
welling-house on which the shutters had not been closed 
nd in which amphibious men and women floated slowly 
9 and fro in the rich liquid that after nightfall rose in- 
essantly from the wells of the lamps to fill the rooms to 
ae very brink of the outer walls of stone and glass, the 
ovement of their bodies«sending through it long unctuous 
olden ripples. I proceeded on my way, and often, in the 
ark alley that ran past the cathedral, as long ago on the 
aad to Méséglise, the force of my desire caught and held 
ue; it seemed that a woman must be on the point of ap- 
earing, to satisfy it; if, in the darkness, I felt suddenly 
Tush past me a skirt, the violence of the pleasure which 
then felt made it impossible for me to believe that the 
omtact was accidental and I attempted to seize in my 
rms a terrified stranger. This gothic alley meant for me 
omething so real that if I had been successful in raising 


| 125 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


and enjoying a woman there, it would have been impos- 
sible for me not to believe that it was the ancient char | 
of the place that was bringing us together, and even 
though she were no more than a common street-walker, 
‘stationed there every evening, still the wintry night, the 
strange place, the darkness, the mediaeval atmosphere 
would have lent her their mysterious glamour. I thought 
of what might be in store for me; to try to forget Mme 
de Guermantes seemed to me a dreadful thing, but reason- 
able, and for the first time possible, easy perhaps even, 
In the absolute quiet of this neighbourhood I could hear 
ahead of me shouted words and laughter which must 
come from tipsy revellers staggering home. I waited te 
see them, I stood peering in the direction from which 
I had heard the sound. But I was obliged to wait for som 
time, for the surrounding silence was so intense that it 
allowed to travel with the utmost clearness and strength 
sounds that were still a long way off. Finally the reveller 
did appear; not, as I had supposed, in front of me, but 
ever so far behind. Whether the intersection of side- 
streets, the interposition of buildings had, by reverbera- 
tion, brought about this acoustic error, or because it is 
very difficult to locate a sound when the place from whie 
it comes is not known, I had been as far wrong ovet 
direction as over distance. 

The wind grew stronger. It was thick and bristling 
with coming snow. I returned to the main street and 
jumped on board the little tramway-car on which, from its 
platform, an officer, without apparently seeing them, wa 
acknowledging the salutes of the loutish soldiers wh 
trudged past along the pavement, their faces daubed 
crimson by the cold, reminding me, in this little town 

126 


At 


I 
ie 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


which the sudden leap from autumn into early winter 
seemed to have transported farther north, of the rubi- 
cund faces which Breughel gives to his merry, junketing, 
‘rostbound peasants, 

_ And sure enough at the hotel where I was to meet 
Saint-Loup and his friends and to which the fair now 
beginning had attracted a number of people from near 
ind far, I found, as I hurried across the courtyard with its 
ylimpses of glowing kitchens in which chickens were 
jurming on spits, pigs were roasting, lobsters being flung, 
ulive, into what the landlord called the “ everlasting fire ”, 
in influx (worthy of some Numbering of the People before 
Bethlehem such as the old Flemish masters used to paint) 
of new arrivals who assembled there in groups, asking 
‘he landlord or one of his staff (who, if he did not like the 
ook of them, would recommend lodgings elsewhere in 
jhe town) whether they could have dinner and beds, while 
a scullion hurried past holding a struggling fowl by the 
veck. And similarly, in the big dining-room which I 
‘rossed the first day before coming to the smaller room 
n which my friend was waiting for me, it was of some 
east in the Gospels portrayed with a mediaeval simplicity 
and an exaggeration typically Flemish that one was re- 
ninded by the quantity of fish, pullets, grouse, woodcock, 
nigeons, brought in dressed and garnished and piping hot 
vy breathless waiters who slid over the polished floor to 
fain speed and set them down on the huge carving table 
where they were at once cut up but where—for most of 
he people had nearly finished dinner when I arrived— 
hey accumulated untouched, as though their profusion 
nd the haste of those who brought them in were due not 
© much to the requirements of the diners as to respect 

127 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST | 


for the sacred text, scrupulously followed in the letter bu 
guaintly illustrated by real details borrowed from loca 
custom, and to an aesthetic and religious scruple for e 
ing evident to the eye the solemnity of the feast by thi 
profusion of the victuals and the assiduity of the servers! 
One of these stood lost in thought at the far end of thy 
room by a sideboard; and to find out from him, who | 
appeared calm enough to be capable of answering me, i 
which room our table had been laid, making my way for! 
ward among the chafing-dishes that had been lighted : | 
and there to keep the late comers’ plates from growin 
cold (which did not, however, prevent the dessert, in th 
centre of the room, from being piled on the outstretche¢ 
hands of a huge mannikin, sometimes supported on thi 
wings of a duck, apparently of crystal, but really of ice 
carved afresh every day with a hot iron by a sculptor 
cook, quite in the Flemish manner), I went straight—at th 
risk of being knocked down by his colleagues—toward 
this servitor, in whom I felt that I recognised a on 
who is traditionally present in all these sacred subjects 
for he reproduced with scrupulous accuracy the blun 
features, fatuous and ill-drawn, the musing expression 
already half aware of the miracle of a divine presenci 
which the others have not yet begun to suspect. I shoul: 
add that, in view probably of the coming fair, this pres 
entation was strengthened by a celestial contingent, re 
cruited in mass, of cherubim and seraphim. A youn! 
angel musician, whose fair hair enclosed a fourteen-yeat 
old face, was not, it was true, playing on any instrument 
but stood musing before a gong or a pile of plates, whil 
other less infantile angels flew swiftly across the bound 
less expanse of the room, beating the air with the ceaseles 

128 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


uttering of the napkins which fell along the lines of their 
odies like the wings in “primitive” paintings, with 
ointed ends. Fleeing those ill-defined regions, screened 
y a hedge of palms through which the angelic servitors 
voked, from a distance, as though they had floated down 
at of the empyrean, I explored my way to the smaller 
yom in which Saint-Loup’s table was laid. I found there 
‘veral of his friends who dined with him regularly, nobles 
ccept for one or two commoners in whom the young 
ables had, in their school days, detected likely friends, 
id with whom they readily associated, proving thereby 
at they were not on principle hostile to the middle class, 
ren though it were Republican, provided it had clean 
ands and went to mass. On the first of these evenings, 
store we sat down to dinner, I drew Saint-Loup into a 
yrner and, in front of all the rest but so that they should 
ot hear me, said to him: 

“Robert, this is hardly the time or the place for what 
am going to say, but I shan’t be a second. I keep on for- 
‘ting to ask you when I’m in the barracks; isn’t that 
jme. de Guermantes’s photograph that you have on your 
ible? % 

“Why, yes; my good aunt.” 
“Of course she is; what a fool I am; you told me 
lfore that she was; I’d forgotten all about her being 
yur aunt. I say, your friends will be getting impatient, 
\: must be quick, they’re looking at us; another time will 
¢; it isn’t at all important.” 

“ That’s all right; go on as long as you like. They can 
Vit.” 

“No, no; I do want to be polite to them; they’re so 
ie; besides, it doesn’t really matter in the least, I as- 
I 129 I 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


sure you.” 
“Do you know that worthy Oriane, then?” 
This “worthy Oriane,” as he might have said, “ thi 
good Oriane,”’ did not imply that Saint-Loup regarde 
Mme. de Guermantes as especially good. In this install 
the words “ good ”, “ excellent”, “ worthy» are mere rely 
forcements a, the doinonatenntee “that”, indicating a pe: 
son who is known to both parties and of whom the speak 
does not quite know what to say to someone outside tl 
intimate circle. The word “good” does duty as a stoy 
gap and keeps the conversation going for a moment uni 
the speaker has hit upon “ Do you see much of her?” « 
“T haven’t set eyes on her for months,” or “I shall t 
seeing her on Tuesday,” or “ She must be getting on, no 
you know.” 
“T can’t tell you how funny it is that it should be h 
photograph, because we’re living in her house now, 
Paris, and I’ve been hearing the most astounding things| 
(I should have been hard put to it to say what) “ abo! 
her, which have made me immensely interested in he 
only from a literary point of view, don’t you know, fro} 
a—how shall I put it—from a Balzacian point of viev 
but you're so clever you can see what I mean; I don’t net 
to explain things to you; but we must hurry up; what ¢ 
earth will your friends think of my manners?” a 
“They will think absolutely nothing; I have told the 
that you are sublime, se they are a great deal mo 
alarmed than you are.’ ot 
“You are too kind. But listen, what I want to say | 
this: I suppose Mme. de Guermantes hasn’t any idea 
I know ha has she? ” Ng 
yi Dicamt ee I haven’t seen her since the summer, b 
130 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


jause I haven’t had any leave since she’s been in town.” 
| “What I was going to say is this: I’ve been told that 


ne looks on me as an absolute idiot.” 

“That I do not believe; Oriane is not exactly an eagle, 
ut all the same she’s by’no means stupid.” 

“You know that, as a rule, I don’t care about your 
ivertising the good opinion you’re kind enough to hold 
me; I’m not conceited. That’s why I’m sorry you 


nould have said flattering things about me to your 


fiends here (we will go back to them in two seconds), 


ut Mme. de Guermantes is different; if you could let 
x know—if you would even exaggerate a trifle—what 


ou think of me, you would give me great pleasure.” 
1“ Why, of course I will, if that’s all you want me to 


4 
| 


()3 It’s not very difficult; but what difference can it pos- 
oly make to you what she thinks of you! I suppose 
pu think her no end of a joke, really; anyhow, if that’s 


H you want we can discuss it in front of the others or 


jaen we are by ourselves; I’m afraid of your tiring your- 
if if you stand talking, and it’s so inconvenient too, 
jen we have heaps of opportunities of being alone 


igether.” 


It was precisely this inconvenience that had given me 
(urage to approach Robert; the presence of the others 
‘1s for me a pretext that justified my giving my remarks 
écurt and incoherent form, under cover of which I could 
ig easily dissemble the falsehood of my saying to my 
Jend that I had forgotten his connexion with the 
lichess, and also did not give him time to frame—with 
ae to my reasons for wishing that Mme. de Guer- 
lintes should know that I was his friend, was clever, 
ed so forth—questions which would have been all the 
131 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


more disturbing in that I should not have been able t 
answer them. | | 
“ Robert, I’m surprised that a man of your intelligence 
should fail to understand that one doesn’t discuss th, 
things that will give one’s friends pleasure; one does then 
Now I, if you were to ask me no matter what, and indee 
I only wish you would ask me to do something for yo 
I can assure you I shouldn’t want any explanations, | 
may ask you for more than I really want; I have no desu 
to know Mme. de Guermantes, but just to test you I ougl 
to have said that I was anxious to dine with Mme. c 
Guermantes; I am sure you would never have done it 
“ Not only should I have done it, I will do it.” 
“When? ” 
“Next time I’m in Paris, three weeks from now, 
expect.” 
“We shall see; I dare say she won’t want to see m 
though. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.” 
“ Not at all; it’s nothing.” 
“Don’t say that; it’s everything in the world, becau 
now I can see what sort of friend you are; whether wh: 
I ask you to do is important or not, disagreeable or nj 
whether I am really keen about it or ask you only as! 
test, it makes no difference; you say you will do it, a! 
there you shew the fineness of your mind and heart. \ 
stupid friend would have started a discussion.” 
Which was exactly what he had just been doing; Et 
perhaps I wanted to flatter his self-esteem; perhaps a 
I was sincere, the sole touchstone of merit seeming to} 
to be the extent to which a friend could be useful in| 
spect of the one thing that seemed to me to have any 1 
portance, namely my love. Then I went on, perhaps frc 
132 


mning, possibly from a genuine increase of affection in- 
ired by gratitude, expectancy, and the copy of Mme. de 
(uermantes’s very features which nature had made in pro- 
acing her nephew Robert: “But, I say, we mustn’t 
hep them waiting any longer, and I’ve mentioned only 
ile of the two things I wanted to ask you, the less im- 
prtant; the other is more important to me, but I’m 
raid you will never consent. Would it bore you if we 
ere to call each other tu?” 

“Bore me? My dear fellow! Joy! Tears of joy! Un- 
eamed-of happiness!” 

“Thank you—tu I mean; you begin first—ever so 
juch. It is such a pleasure to me that you needn’t do 
iything about Mme. de Guermantes if you’ld rather not, 
tis is quite enough for me.” 

“T can do both.” 

“say, Robert! Listen to me a minute,” I said to him 
ler while we were at dinner. “Oh, it’s really too absurd 
(2 way our conversation is always being interrupted, I 
We think why—you remember the lady I was speaking 


you about just now.” 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 
: 


i“ Yes.” 
“You’re quite sure you know who’ I mean?” 
“Why, what do you take me for, a village idiot?” 
“You wouldn’t care to give me her photograph, I 
ppose? ” 
1p had meant to ask him only for the loan of it. But 
ten the time came to speak I felt shy, I decided that the 
quest was indiscreet, and in order to hide my confusion 
Dut the question more bluntly, and increased my de- 
ind, as if it had been quite natural. 
“No; I should have to ask her permission first,” was 
133 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


his answer. | 

He blushed as he spoke. I could see that he had a rese 
vation in his mind, that he credited me also with on 
that he would give only a partial service to my love, und! 
the restraint of certain moral principles, and for this 
hated him. | 

At the same time I was touched to see how different 
Saint-Loup behaved towards me now that I was no long 
alone with him, and that his friends formed an audienc 
His increased affability would have left me cold had. 
thought that it was deliberately assumed; but I could f 
that it was spontaneous and consisted only of all that | 
had to say about me in my absence and refrained as, 
rule from saying when we were together by ourselv 
In our private conversations I might certainly suspe 
the pleasure that he found in talking to me, but th 
pleasure he almost always left unexpressed. Now, at t 
same remarks from me which, as a rule, he enjoyed wit 
out shewing it, he watched from the corner of his eye 
see whether they produced on his friends the effect : 
which he had counted, an effect corresponding to what 
had promised them beforehand. The mother of a girl’ 
her first season could be no more unrelaxing in her atte 
tion to her daughter’s responses and to the attitude of t 
public. If I had made some remark at which, alone 
my company, he would merely have smiled, he was afré 
that the others might not have seen the point, and p 
in a “ What’s that?” to make me repeat what I had sa 
to attract attention, and turning at once to his frien 
and making himself automatically, by facing them w 
a hearty laugh, the fugleman of their laughter, pi 
sented me for the first time with the opinion that 


134 


I 
| 
\ 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


ctually held of me and must often have expressed to 
aem. So that I caught sight of myself suddenly from 
rithout, like a person who reads his name in a newspaper 
r sees himself in a mirror. 

‘ It occurred to me, one of these evenings, to tell a mildly 
musing story about Mme. Blandais, but I stopped at 
ace, remembering that Saint-Loup knew it already, and 
hat when I had tried to tell him it on the day following 
y arrival he had interrupted me with: “You told me 
iat before, at Balbec.” I was surprised, therefore, to find 
m begging me to go on and assuring me that he did 
%t know the story, and that it would amuse him im- 
ensely. “ You’ve forgotten it for the moment,” I said 
‘him, “but you'll remember as I go on.” “No, really; 
‘swear you’re mistaken. You’ve never told me. Do go 
4” And throughout the story he fixed a feverish and 
wwaptured gaze alternately on myself and on his friends. 
realised only after I had finished, amid general laughter, 
sat it had struck him that this story would give his 
lends a good idea of my wit, and that it was for this 
ason that he had pretended not to know it. Such is the 
aff of friendship. 

On the third evening, one of his friends, to whom I 
d not had an opportunity before of speaking, conversed 
‘th me at great length; and I overheard him telling 
int-Loup how much he had been enjoying himself. And 
deed we sat talking together almost all evening, leaving 
T glasses of sauterne untouched on the table before us, 
slated, sheltered from the others by the sumptous cur- 
‘ns of one of those intuitive sympathies between man 
d man which, when they are not based upon any physi- 
| attraction, are the only kind that is altogether mys- 


135 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


terious. Of such an enigmatic nature had seemed to me 
at Balbec, that feeling which Saint-Loup had for me, whic} 
was not to be confused with the interest of our conversa 
tions, a feeling free from any material association, in 
visible, intangible, and yet a thing of the presence o) 
which in himself, like a sort of inflammatory gas, he ha 
been so far conscious as to refer to it with a smile. An¢ 
yet there was perhaps something more surprising still i 
this sympathy born here in a single evening, like a flowe 
that had budded and opened in a few minutes in thi 
warmth of this little-room. I could not help asking Rober 
when he spoke to me about Balbec whether it were reall) 
settled that he was to marry Mlle. d’Ambresac. He as 
sured me that not only was it not settled, but there ha/ 
never been any thought of such a match, he had neve| 
seen her, he did not know who she was. If at that momen! 
I had happened to see any of the social gossipers who hay 
told me of this coming event, they would promptly hav 
announced the betrothal of Mlle. d’Ambresac to som 
one who was not Saint-Loup and that of Saint-Loup t| 
some one who was not Mlle. d’Ambresac. I should hav 
surprised them greatly had I reminded them of their in 
compatible and still so recent predictions. In order the 
this little game may continue, and multiply false repo | 
by attaching the greatest possible number to every nam) 
in turn, nature has furnished those who play it with | 
memory as short as their credulity is long. 

Saint-Loup had spoken to me of another of his friend 
who was present also, one with whom he was on pal 
ticularly good terms just then, since they were the onl 
two advocates in their mess of the retrial of Dreyfus. | 

Just as a brother of this friend of Saint-Loup, who ha 


136 


—<—_ - 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


yeen trained at the Schola Cantorum, thought about every 
yew musical work not at all what his father, his mother, 
is cousins, his club friends thought, but exactly what the 
jther students thought at the Schola, so this non-com- 
aissioned nobleman (of whom Bloch formed an extraor. 
\inary opinion when I told him about him, because, 
ouched to hear that he belonged to the same party as 
imself, he nevertheless imagined him on account of his 
iristocratic birth and religious and military upbringing 
9 be as different as possible, endowed with the same 


omantic attraction as a native of a distant country) had 
| “mentality”, as people were now beginning to say, 
nalogous to that of the whole body of Dreyfusards in 
eneral and of Bloch in particular, on which the traditions 
f his family and the interests of his career could retain 
© hold whatever. Similarly one of Saint-Loup’s cousins 
ad married a young Eastern princess who was said to 
‘Tite poetry quite as fine as Victor Hugo’s or Alfred de 
jigny’s, and in spite of this was supposed to have a 
ifferent type of mind from what one would naturally 
pect, the mind of an Eastern princess immured in an 
wabian Nights palace. For the writers who had the 
tivilege of meeting her was reserved the disappointment 
¢ rather the joy of listening to conversation which gave 
te impression not of Scheherazade but of a person of 
enius of the type of Alfred de Vigny or Victor Hugo. 

“That fellow? Oh, he’s not like Saint-Loup, he’s a 
‘gular devil,” my new friend informed me; “he’s not 
ven straight about it. At first, he used to say: ‘ Just wait 
little, there’s a man I know well, a clever, kind-hearted 
llow, General de Boisdeffre; you need have no hesita- 
om in accepting his decision.’ But as soon as he heard 


137 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


that Boisdeffre had pronounced Dreyfus guilty, Boisdefirr 
ceased to count: clericalism, staff prejudices prevented hij 
forming a candid opinion, although there is no one it 
the world (or was, rather, before this Dreyfus business) 
half so clerical as our friend. Next he told us that now 
we were sure to get the truth, the case had been put ir 
the hands of Saussier, and he, a soldier of the Republic 
(our friend coming of an ultra-monarchist family, if you 
please), was a man of bronze, a stern unyielding con, 
‘science. But when Saussier pronounced Esterhazy in 
nocent, he found fresh reasons to account for the decision) 
reasons damaging not to Dreyfus but to General Saussie 
It was the militarist spirit that blinded Saussier (and ! 
must explain to you that our friend is just as mucl 
militarist as clerical, or at least he was; I don’t know 
what to think of him now). His family are all broken 
hearted at seeing him possessed by such ideas.” | 
“Don’t you think,” I suggested, turning half toward: 
Saint-Loup so as not to appear to be cutting myself of 
from him, as well as towards his friend, and so that wi 
might all three join in the conversation, “that the in 
fluence we ascribe to environment is particularly true o 
intellectual environment. One is the man of one’s idea’ 
There are far fewer ideas than men, therefore all mei 
with similar ideas are alike. As there is nothing materia 
in an idea, so the people who are only materially neigh 
bours of the man with an idea can do nothing to alter it.) 
' At this point I was interrupted by Saint-Loup, becaus 
another of the young men had leaned across to him wit! 
a smile and, pointing to me, exclaimed: “ Duroc! Duro| 
all over!” I had no idea what this might mean, but. 
felt the expression on the shy young face to be mor 


— 


138 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 
aan friendly. While I was speaking, the approbation of 


he party seemed to Saint-Loup superfluous; he insisted 

n silence. And just as a conductor stops his orchestra 
jth a rap from his baton because some one in the audi- 
ince has made a noise, so he rebuked the author of this 
isturbance: “ Gibergue, you must keep your mouth shut 
vhen people are speaking. You can tell us about it after- 
ards.” And to me: “ Please go on.” 

'I gave a sigh of relief, for I had been afraid that he 
ras going to make me begin all over again. 

“And as an idea,” I went on, “is a thing that cannot 
articipate in human interests and would be incapable of 
eriving any benefit from them, the men who are governed 
y an idea are not influenced -by material considerations.” 
‘When I had finished, “ That’s one in the eye for you, 
ty boys,” exclaimed Saint-Loup, who had been follow- 
ig me with his gaze with the same anxious solicitude as 
‘I had been walking upon a tight-rope. “What were 
ou going to say, Gibergue? ” 

'“I was just saying that your friend reminded me of 
fajor Duroc. I seemed to hear hira speaking.” 

“Why, I’ve often thought so myself,” replied Saint- 
‘oup; “they have several points in common, but you'll 
nd there are a thousand things in this fellow that Duroc 
asn’t got.” 

Saint-Loup was not satisfied with this comparison. In 
a ecstasy of joy, into which there no doubt entered the 
vy that he felt in making me shine before his friends, 
ith extreme volubility, stroking me as though he were 
ibbing down a horse that had just come first past the 
ost, he reiterated: “ You’re the cleverest man: I know, 
2 you hear?” He corrected himself, and added: “ You 


BaD 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST | 


and Elstir—You don’t mind my bracketing him with you 
I hope. You understand—punctiliousness. It’s like this: ] 
Say it to you as one might have said to Balzac: ‘ You ar 
the greatest novelist of the century—you and Stendhal. 
Excessive punctiliousness, don’t you know, and at hear 
an immense admiration. No? You don’t admit Stend. 
hal?” he went on, with an ingenuous confidence in my 
judgment which found expression in a charming, smiling) 
almost childish glance of interrogation from his greer 
eyes. “Oh, good! I see you’re on my side; Bloch can) 
stand Stendhal. I think it’s idiotic of him. The Char 
treuse is after all an immense work, don’t you think? ] 
am so glad you agree with me. What is it you like bes’ 
in the Chartreuse, answer me?” he appealed to me with 
a boyish impetuosity. And the menace of his physica 
strength made the question almost terrifying. “ Mosca: 
Fabrice?” I answered timidly that Mosca reminded me . 
a little of M. de Norpois. Whereupon peals of laughtey 
from the young Siegfried Saint-Loup. And while I wat 
going on to explain: “ But Mosca is far more intelligent 
not so pedantic,” I heard Robert cry: “ Bravo!” actually | 
clapping his hands, and, helpless with laughter, gasp: 
“Oh, perfect! Admirable! You really are astounding.” | 

I took a particular pleasure in talking to this young 
man, as for that matter to all Robert’s friend d tc 
Robert himself, about their barracks, the officers he 
garrison, and the army in general. Thanks to the 1m 
mensely enlarged scale on which we see the things, how. 
ever petty they may be, in the midst of which we eat, and 
talk, and lead our real life; thanks to that formidable 
enlargement which they undergo, and the effect of whick 
is that the rest of the world, not being present, can 


140 
l 
| 


| 
| THE GUERMANTES WAY 

‘compete with them, and assumes in comparison the un- 
-substantiality of a dream, I had begun to take an interest 
‘in the various personalities of the barracks, in the officers 
‘whom I saw in the square when I went to visit Saint- 
‘Loup, or, if I was awake then, when the regiment passed 
‘beneath my windows. I should have liked to know more 
about the major whom Saint-Loup so greatly admired, 
and about the course of military history which would have 
appealed to me “even from an aesthetic point of view ”. 
I knew that with Robert the spoken word was, only too 
toften, a trifle hollow, but at other times implied the 
assimilation of valuable ideas which he was fully capable 
of grasping. Unfortunately, from the military point of 
wiew Robert was exclusively preoccupied at this time with 
the case of Dreyfus. He spoke little about it, since he 
alone of the party at table was a Dreyfusard; the others 
were violently opposed to the idea of a fresh trial, except 
my other neighbour, my new friend, and his opinions 
appeared to be somewhat vague. A firm admirer of the 
colonel, who was regarded as an exceptionally competent 
officer and had denounced the current agitation against 
che Army in several of his regimental orders, which won 
aim the reputation of being an anti-Dreyfusard, my neigh- 
pour had heard that his commanding officer had let fall 
certain remarks which had led to the supposition that 
: had his doubts as to the guilt of Dreyfus and retained 


is admiration for Picquart. In the latter respect, at any 
ate, the rumour of Dreyfusism as applied to the colonel 
vas as ill-founded as are all the rumours, springing from 
tone knows where, which float around any great scandal. 
“or, shortly afterwards, this colonel having been detailed 


0 interrogate the former Chief of the Intelligence Branch, 
141 


Pa 


7 
r 


ped 


| 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST | 


had treated him with a brutality and contempt the like 
of which had never been known before. However thi 
might be (and naturally he had not taken the liberty 
of going direct to the colonel for his information), my 
neighbour had paid Saint-Loup the compliment of telling 
him—in the tone in which a Catholic lady might tell ¢ 
Jewish lady that her parish priest denounced the po 
groms in Russia and might openly admire the generosit} 
of certain Israelites—that their colonel was not, wit 
regard to Dreyfusism—to a certain kind of Dreyfusism 
at least—the fanatical, narrow opponent that he had beer 
made out to be. 
“JT am not surprised,’ was Saint-Loup’ S comment 
“for he’s a sensible man. But in spite of that he is 
blinded by the De Oe of his caste, and above all by 
his clericalism. Now,” he turned to me, “ Major Duroc 
the lecturer on military history I was telling you about 
there’s a man who is whole-heartedly in support of ou. 
views, or so I’m told. And I should have been surprisec 
to hear that he wasn’t, for he’s not only a brilliantly cleve: 
man, but a Radical-Socialist and a freemason.” 
Partly out of courtesy to his friends, whom these ex. 
pressions of Saint-Loup’s faith in Dreyfus made uncom) 
fortable, and also because the subject was of more interes 
to myself, I asked my neighbour if it were true that thi 
major gave a demonstration of military history whic) 
had a genuine aesthetic beauty. “It is absolutely ri 
“But what do you mean by that?” 
“Well, all that you read, let us say, in the narrativ) 
of a military historian, the smallest facts, the most triviz 
happenings, are only the outward signs of an idea whic 
has to be analysed, and which often brings to light othe 
142 — | 


pea io 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


‘ideas, like a palimpsest. So that you have a field for 
study as intellectual as any science you care to name, 
or any art, and one that is satisfying to the mind.” 

| “Give me an example or two, if you don’t mind.” 

| “It is not very easy to explain,” Saint-Loup broke in, 
You read, let us say, that this or that Corps has 
‘ied . . . but before we go any farther, the serial 
‘umber of the Corps, its order of battle are not without 
‘heir significance. If it is not the first time that the opera- 
‘ton has been attempted, and if for the same operation 
ve find a different Corps being brought up, it is perhaps 
1 sign that the previous Corps have been wiped out or 
ave suffered heavy casualties in the said operation; that 
hey are no longer in a fit state to carry it through suc- 
‘essfully. Next, we must ask ourselves what was this 
Corps which is now out of action; if it was composed of 
hock troops, held in reserve for big attacks, a fresh Corps 
if inferior quality will have little chance of succeeding 
where the first has failed. Furthermore, if we are not at 
he start of a campaign, this fresh Corps may itself be 
composite formation of odds and ends withdrawn from 
‘ther Corps, which throws a light on the strength of 
he forces the belligerent still has at his disposal and the 
‘Toximity of the moment when his forces shall be defi- 
itely inferior to the enemy’s, which gives to the operation 
n which this Corps is about to engage a different mean- 
ag, because, if it is no longer in a condition to make 
ood its losses, its successes even will only help mathe- 
latically to bring it nearer to its ultimate destruction. 
and then, the serial number of the Corps that it has 
icing it is of no less significance. If, for instance, it is 
‘Much weaker unit, which has already accounted for 


| 143 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


| 
| 
several important units of the attacking force, the i, 
nature of the operation is changed, since, even if it shoul 
end in the loss of the position which the defending fore 
has been holding, simply to have held it for any lengil 

time may be a great success if a very small defendig) 
force has been sufficient to disable highly important force 
on the other side. You can understand that if, in th 
analysis of the Corps engaged on both sides, there ei 
all these points of importance, the study of the positio 
itself, of the roads, of the railways which it command; 
of the lines of communication which it protects, is of t 
very highest. One must study what I may call the whol 
geographical context,” he added with a laugh. And ir 
deed he was so delighted with this expression that, ever 
time he employed it, even months afterwards, it wa 
always accompanied by the same laugh. “While th 
operation is being prepared by one of the belligerents, | 
you read that one of his patrols has been wiped out 1) 
the neighbourhood of the position by the other belligeren 
one of the conclusions which you are entitled to draw | 
that one side was attempting to reconnoitre the defensis 
works with which the other intended to resist his attacl 
An exceptional burst of activity at a given point mal 
indicate the desire to capture that point, but equally w 
the desire to hold the enemy in check there, not to rm 
taliate at the point at which he has attacked you; or | 
may indeed be only a feint, intended to cover by ani 
creased activity the relief of troops in that sector. (Whic 
was a classic feint in Napoleon’s wars.) On the oth 
hand, to appreciate the significance of any movement, 1 
probable object, and, as a corollary, the other movemen 
by which it will be accompanied or followed, it is n 


144 


_& <5 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


mmaterial to consult, not so much the announcements 
ssued by the Higher Command, which may be intended 
° deceive the enemy, to mask a possible check, as the 
aanual of field operations in use in the country in ques- 
‘on. We are always entitled to assume that the manoeuvre 
yhich an army has attempted to carry out is that pre- 
cribed by the rules that are applicable to the circum- 
tances. If, for instance, the rule lays down that a frontal 
ttack should be accompanied by a flank attack; if, after 
he flank attack has failed, the Higher Command makes 
ut that it had no connexion with the main attack and 
‘as merely a diversion, there is a strong likelihood that the 
‘uth will be found by consulting the rules and not the 
sports issued from Headquarters. And there are not only 
te regulations governing each army to be considered, 
‘ut their traditions, their habits, their doctrines; the study 
{ diplomatic activities, with their perpetual action or 
saction upon military activities, must not be neglected 
‘ther. Incidents apparently insignificant, which at the 
me are not understood, will explain to you how the 
lemy, counting upon a support which these incidents 
lew to have been withheld, was able to carry out only 
part of his strategic plan. So that, if you can read 
ttween the lines of military history, what is a confused 
mble for the ordinary reader becomes a chain of reason- 
'§ as straightforward as a picture is for the picture- 
ver who can see what the person portrayed is wearing 
id has in his hands, while the visitor hurrying through 
e gallery is bewildered by a blur of colour which gives 
ma headache. But just as with certain pictures, in 
‘ich it is not enough to observe that the figure is holding 
chalice, but one must know why the painter chose to 


| 145 J 


nd 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST I 


place a chalice in his hands, what it is intended to sym 
bolise, so these military operations, apart from their im 
mediate object, are quite regularly traced, in the mind ¢ 
the general responsible for the campaign, from the plar. 
of earlier battles, which we may call the past experienc) 
the literature, the learning, the etymology, the aristo 
racy (whichever you like) of the battles of to-day. Ol 
serve that I am not speaking for the moment of the loca 
the (what shall I call it?) spatial identity of battles. SS 
exists also. A battle-field has never been, and never w 
be throughout the centuries, simply the ground upon wil 
a particular battle has been fought. If it has been i 
battle-field, that was because it combined certain cond 
tions of geographical position, of geological formatifl 
drawbacks even, of a kind that would obstruct the enen/ 
(a river, for instance, cutting his force in two), whi 
made it a good field of battle. And so what it has ber 
it will continue to be. A painter doesn’t make a stud 
out of any old room; so you don’t make a battle-field Oo: 
of any old piece of ground. There are places set apa 
for the purpose. But, once again, this is not what I wi 
telling you about; it was the type of battle which o} 
follows, in a sort of strategic tracing, a tactical imitati¢, 
if you like. Battles like Ulm, Lodi, Leipzig, Cannaall 
can’t say whether there is ever going to be another Wi, 
or what nations are going to fight in it, but, if a war de 
come, you may be sure that it will include (and deli 
ately, on the commander’s part) a Cannae, an Austerli 
a Rosbach, a Waterloo. Some of our people say qu? 
openly that Marshal von Schieffer and General Falke 
hausen have prepared a Battle of Cannae against Fran, 
in the Hannibal style, pinning their enemy down alo} 

146 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


jis whole front, and advancing on both flanks, especially 
hrough Belgium, while Bernhardi prefers the oblique 
rder of Frederick the Great, Lenthen rather than Can- 
jae. Others expound their views less crudely, but I can 
all you one thing, my boy, that Beauconseil, the squad- 
on commander I introduced you to the other day, who 
an officer with a very great future before him, has 
wotted up a little Pratzen attack of his own; he knows 
inside out, he is keeping it up his sleeve, and if he 
vet has an opportunity to put it into practice he will 
ake a clean job of it and let us have it on a big scale. 
he break through in the centre at Rivoli, too; that’s 
thing that will crop up if there’s ever another war. 
’s no more obsolete than the Jliad. I must add that 
© are practically condemned to make frontal attacks, 
*cause we can’t afford to repeat the mistake we made 
/ Seventy; we must assume the offensive, and nothing 
se. The only thing that troubles me is that if I see 
ly the slower, more antiquated minds among us oppos- 
g this splendid doctrine, still, one of the youngest of 
iy Masters, who is a genius, I mean Mangin, would like 
j to leave room, provisionally of course, for the de- 
jasive. It is not very easy to answer him when he cites 
i¢ example of Austerlitz, where the defence was merely 
orelude to attack and victory.” 

‘The enunciation of these theories by Saint-Loup made 
+ happy. They gave me to hope that perhaps I was 
t being led astray, in my life at Donciéres, with regard 
these officers whom I used to hear being discussed 
ule I sat sipping a sauterne which bathed them in its 
arming golden glint, by the same magnifying power 
tich had swollen to such enormous proportions in my 

147 


-- 


/ 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


eyes while I was at Balbec the King and Queen of tl 
South Sea Island, the little group of the four epicure 
the young gambler, Legrandin’s brother-in-law, nec 
shrunken so in my view as to appear non-existent. Wh 
gave me pleasure to-day would not, perhaps, leave r 
indifferent to-morrow, as had always happened hithert 
the creature that I still was at this moment was not, pe 
haps, doomed to immediate destruction, since to t 
ardent and fugitive passion which I had felt on them 
few evenings for everything connected with military lig 
Saint-Loup, by what he had just been saying to n | 
touching the art of war, added an intellectual foundat | 
of a permanent character, capable of attaching me 
itself so strongly that I might, without any attempt § 
deceive myself, feel assured that after I had left Donciég 
i should continue to take an interest in the work of ij 
friends there, and should not be long in coming to py 


quite sure that this art of war was indeed an art in " 
true sense of the word: i 
“You interest me—I beg your pardon, tu interest @ 
enormously,” I said to Saint-Loup, “but tell me, th 
is one point that puzzles me. I feel that I could be kee 
thrilled by the art of strategy, but if so I must first 
sure that it is not so very different from the other a 
that knowing the rules is not everything. You tell | 
that plans of battles are copied. I do find somethif 
aesthetic, just as you said, in seeing beneath a modern If 
tle the plan of an older one, I can’t tell you how attracl) 
it sounds. But then, does the genius of the commant 
count for nothing? Does he really do no more than apy 
the rules? Or, in point of science, are there great gene| 
148 


THE GUERMANTES WAY. 


as there are great surgeons, who, when the symptoms 
exhibited by two states of ill-health are identical to the 
jutward eye, nevertheless feel, for some infinitesimal 
eason, founded perhaps on their experience, but inter- 
mreted afresh, that in one case they ought to do one 
hing, in another case another; that in one case it js better 
© operate, in another to wait?” 


0k at Austerlitz, or in 1806 take his instructions to. 
Piannes. But you will find certain generals slavishly 
Mitating one of Napoleon’s movements and arriving at 
| diametrically opposite result. There are 4 dozen exam- 
les of that in 1870. But even for the interpretation of 
hat the enemy may do, what he actually does is only 
‘Symptom which may mean any number of different 
angs. Each of them has an equal chance of being the 
Pzht thing, if one looks only to reasoning and science, just 
in certain difficult cases all the medical science in the 
porld will be powerless to decide whether the invisible 


ght to be performed. It is his instinct, his divination— 
e Mme. de Thebes (you follow me?)—which decides, 
\the great general as in the great doctor. Thus I’ve 
en telling you, to take one instance, what might be 
Jant by a reconnaissance on the eve of a battle. But it 
Y mean a dozen other things also, such as to make 
‘enemy think you are going to attack him at one point 
€reas you intend to attack him at another, to put out 
creen which will prevent him from seeing the prepara- 
as for your real operation, to force him to bring up 
149 


ye 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


fresh troops, to hold them, to immobilise them in a dif. 
ferent place from where they are needed, to form a1 
estimate of the forces at his disposal, to feel him, to fore 
him to shew his hand. Sometimes, indeed, the fact tha 
you employ an immense number of troops in an opera 
tion is by no means a proof that that is your true objec 
tive; for you may be justified in carrying it out, even i 
it is only a feint, so that your feint may have a bette 
chance of deceiving the enemy. If I had time now to g 
through the Napoleonic wars from this point of view, 
assure you that these simple classic movements whic| 
we study here, and which you will come and see U 
practising in the field, just for the pleasure of a wall| 
you young rascal—no, I know you’re not well, I apologis¢ 
—well, in a war, when you feel behind you the vigilane 
the judgment, the profound study of the Higher Con 
mand, you are as much moved by them as by the simp) 
lamps of a lighthouse, only a material combustion, but 4 
emanation of the spirit, sweeping through space to wall 
ships of danger. I may have been wrong, perhaps, / 
speaking to you only of the literature of war. In realit) 
as the formation of the soil, the direction of wind ar! 
light tell us which way a tree will grow, so the conditioy 
in which a campaign is fought, the features of the count| 
through which you march, prescribe, to a certain exter) 
and limit the number of the plans among which ti 
general has to choose. Which means that along a mou: 
tain range, through a system of valleys, over certa) 
plains, it is almost with the inevitability and the treme; 
dous beauty of an avalanche that you can forecast t 
line of an army on the march.” 
“ Now you deny me that freedom of choice in the col 
150 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


aander, that power of divination in the enemy who is 
‘tying to discover his plan, which you allowed me a 
1oment ago.” 

{ “Not at all. You remember that book of philosophy 
ve read together at Balbec, the richness of the world of 
\ ossibilities compared with the real world. Very well. It 
the same again with the art of strategy. In a given 
yituation there will be four plans that offer themselves, 
Yne of which the general has to choose, as a disease may 
ie through various phases for which the doctor has to 
atch. And here again the weakness and greatness of 
/ae human elements are fresh causes of uncertainty. For 
[ these four plans let us assume that contingent reasons 
ysuch as the attainment of minor objects, or time, which 
"tay be pressing, or the smallness of his effective strength 
ind shortage of rations) lead the general to prefer the 
tst, which is less perfect, but less costly also to carry 
ut, is more rapid, and has for its terrain a richer 
ountry for feeding his troops. He may, after having 
egun with this plan, which the enemy, uncertain at 
icst, will soon detect, find that success lies beyond his 
‘asp, the difficulties being too great (that is what I call 
jie element of human weakness), abandon it and try 
Hie second or third or fourth. But it may equally be that 
> has tried the first plan (and this is what I call human 
jeatness) merely as a feint to pin down the enemy, 
}}) as to surprise him later at a point where he has not 
*en expecting an attack. Thus at Ulm, Mack, who ex- 
pected the enemy to advance from the west, was sur- 
funded from the north where he thought he was per- 
ctly safe. My example is not a very good one, as a 
jatter of fact. And Ulm is a better type of enveloping 
151 


| 
| 
| 


SS 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST | 


battle, which the future will see reproduced, because j) 
is not only a classic example from which generals wi 
seek inspiration, but a form that is to some extent neces 
sary (one of several necessities, which leaves room fo 
choice, for variety) like a type of crystallisation. But j | 
doesn’t much matter, really, because these conditions a 
after all artificial. To go back to our philosophy book 
it is like the rules of logic or scientific laws, reality doe| 
conform to it more or less, but bear in mind that th 
great mathematician Poincaré is by no means certai 
that mathematics are strictly accurate. As to the rule 
themselves, which I mentioned to you, they are of se¢ 
ondary importance really, and besides they are altere 
from time to time. We cavalrymen, for instance, have t 
go by the Field Service of 1895, which, you may say, ] 
out of date since it is based on the old and obsolet 
doctrine which maintains that cavalry warfare has littl 
more than a moral effect, in the panic that the charg 
creates in the enemy. Whereas the more intelligent ¢ 
our teachers, all the best brains in the cavalry, and par 
ticularly the major I was telling you about, anticipate 0 
the contrary that the decisive victory will be obtained b 
a real hand to hand encounter in which our weapons. wi 
be sabre and lance and the side that can hold out longe 
will win, not simply morally and by creating panic, bu 
materially.” # 
“Saint-Loup is quite right, and it is probable that th 
next Field Service will shew signs of this evolution,” pu 
in my other neighbour. : 
“IT am not ungrateful for your support, for you 
opinions Gert to make more impression upon my frien 
than mine,” said Saint-Loup with a smile, whether becaus 
152 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


te growing attraction between his comrade and myself 
anoyed him slightly or because he thought it graceful 
» solemnise it with this official confirmation. “ Perhaps 
may have underestimated the importance of the rules; 
‘don’t know. They do change, that must be admitted. 
ut in the mean time they control the military situation, 
te plans of campaign and concentration. If they reflect 
“false conception of strategy they may be the principal 
ause of defeat. All this is a little too technical for you,” 
2 remarked to me. “ After all, you may say that what 
des most to accelerate the evolution of the art of war 
wars themselves. In the course of a campaign, if it is 
: all long, you will see one belligerent profiting by the 
ssons furnished him by the successes and mistakes, 
erfecting the methods of the other, who will improve 
a him in turn. But all that is a thing of the past. With 
te terrible advance of artillery, the wars of the future, 
‘there are to be any more wars, will be so short that, 
tfore we have had time to think of putting our lessons 
ito practice, peace will have been signed.” 
““Don’t be so touchy,” I told Saint-Loup, reverting to 
le first words of this speech. “I was listening to you 
uite eagerly.” 
“Tf you will billy not fly into a passion, and will 
low me to speak,” his friend went on, “I shall add 
» what you have just been saying that if battles copy and 
vincide with one another it is not merely due to the 
ind of the commander. It may happen that a mistake 
1 his part (for instance, his failure to appreciate the 
rength of the enemy) will lead him to call upon his men 
i extravagant sacrifices, sacrifices which certain units 
ill make with an abnegation so sublime that their part 


153 


« 


| 


| 
| 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


in the battle will be analogous to that played by som 
other unit in some other battle, and these will be quote 
in history as interchangeable examples: to stick to 18% 
we have the Prussian Guard at Saint-Privat, and th 
Turcos at Freeschviller and Wissembourg.” 

“Ah! Interchangeable; very neat! Excellent! The la 
has brains,” was Saint-Loup’s comment. | 

I was not unmoved by these last examples, as alway 
when, beneath the particular instance, I was afforde 
a glimpse of the general law. Still, the genius of th 
commander, that was what interested me, I was anxiov 
to discover in what it consisted, what steps, in given cil 
cumstances, when the commander who lacked geniu 
could not withstand the enemy, the inspired leader woul: 
take to re-establish his jeopardised position, which, a¢ 
cording to Saint-Loup, was quite possible and had bee 
done by Napoleon more than once. And to understan 
what military worth meant I asked for comparisons be 
tween the various generals whom I knew by name, whic: 
of them had most markedly the character of a leader, th 
gifts of a tactician; at the risk of boring my new friends 
who however shewed no signs of boredom, but continue’ 
to answer me with an inexhaustible good-nature. | 

I felt myself isolated, not only from the great, freezin 
night which extended far around us and in which we hear 
from time to time the whistle of a train which onl} 
rendered more keen the pleasure of being where we were 
or the chime of an hour which, happily, was still a lon! 
way short of that at which these young men would hav 
to buckle on their sabres and go, but also from all m) 
external obsessions, almost from the memory of Mme. d: 
Guermantes, by the hospitality of Saint-Loup, to whicl 


154 


; 


| 


i 
| 


—— 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


shat of his friends, reinforcing it, gave, so to speak, a 
yreater solidity; by the warmth also of this little dining- 
yoom, by the savour of the well-chosen dishes that were 
het before us. They gave as much pleasure to my imagin- 
ition as to my appetite; sometimes the little piece of still 
iife from which they had been taken, the rugged holy 
water stoup of the oyster in which lingered a few drops 
of brackish water, or the knotted stem, the yellow leaves 
of a bunch of grapes still enveloped them, inedible, poetic 
and remote as a landscape, and producing, at different 
doints in the course of the meal, the impressions of rest 
im the shade of a vine and of an excursion out to sea; 
on other evenings it was the cook alone who threw into 
belief these original properties of our food, which he 
presented in its natural setting, like a work of art; and 
2 fish cooked in wine was brought in on a long earthen- 
ware dish, on which, as it stood out in relief on a bed of 
oluish herbs, unbreakable now but still contorted from 
aaving been dropped alive into boiling water, surrounded 
oy a circle of satellite creatures in their shells, crabs, 
shrimps and mussels, it had the appearance of being part 
of a ceramic design by Bernard Palissy. 

“TI am jealous, furious,” Saint-Loup attacked me, half 
miling, half in earnest, alluding to the interminable con- 
yersations aside which I had been having with his friend. 
“Ts it because you find him more intelligent than me; 


U 


do you like him better than me? Well, I suppose he’s 
2verything now, and no one else is to have a look in!” 
Men who are enormously in love with a woman, who live 
nm the society of woman-lovers, allow themselves pleasan- 
ries on which others, who would see less innocence in 
‘hem, would never venture. 


155 


| 
REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


When the conversation became general, they avoide 
any reference to Dreyfus for fear of offending Saint-Loup 
The following week, however, two of his friends wer 
remarking what a curious thing it was that, living in s¢ 
military an atmosphere, he was so keen a Dreyfusard 
almost an anti-militarist: “The reason is,” I suggested 
not wishing to enter into details, “that the influence o 
environment is not so important as people think .. .” | 
intended of course to stop at this point, and not t 
reiterate the observations which I had made to Saint 
Loup a few days earlier. Since, however, I had repeatec 
these words almost textually, I proceeded to excus¢ 
myself by adding: “As, in fact, I was saying the ott 
day ...” But I had reckoned without the revers¢ 
side of Robert’s polite admiration of myself and certair| 
other persons. That admiration reached its fulfilmen’ 
in so entire an assimilation of their ideas that, in the 
course of a day or two, he would have completely forgot 
ten that those ideas were not his own. And s0, in the 
matter of my modest theory, Saint-Loup, for all the worl 
as. though it had always dwelt in his own brain, anc, 
as though I were merely poaching on his preserves, fel 
it incumbent upon him to greet my discovery with warm 
approval. | 

“Why, yes; environment is of no importance.” Ki 

And with as much vehemence as if he were afraid of 
my interrupting, or failing to understand him: 

“The real influence is that of one’s intellectual environ 
ment! One is the man of one’s idea! ” 

He stopped for a moment, with the satisfied-smile of 
one who has digested his dinner, dropped his eyeglass 
and, fixing me with a gimlet-like stare: bs 

156 


| 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


“All men with similar ideas are alike,” he informed 
&; with a challenging air. Probably he had completely 
tgotten that I myself had said to him, only a few days 
lier, what on the other hand he remembered so well. 
-I did not arrive at Saint-Loup’s restaurant every eve- 
ng in the same state of mind. If a memory, a sorrow 
at weigh on us are able to leave us so effectively that 
2 are no longer aware of them, they can also return 
ad sometimes remain with us for a long time. ‘here 
are evenings when, as I passed through the town on 
y way to the restaurant, I felt so keen a longing for 
ime. de Guermantes that I could scarcely breathe; you 
ight have said that part of my breast had Geen cut 
yen by a skilled anatomist, taken out, and replaced by 
1 equal part of immaterial suffering, by an equivalent 
ad of longing and love. And however neatly the wound 
ay have been stitched together, there is not much com- 
tt in life when regret het the loss of another person 
| substituted for one’s entrails, it seems to be occupying 
‘ore room than they, one feels it perpetually, and be- 
des, what a contradiction in terms to be obliged to 
‘mk a part of one’s body. Only it seems that we are 
‘orth more, somehow. At the whisper of a breeze we 
zh, from oppression, but from weariness also. I would 
ok up at the sky. If it were clear, I would say to my- 
lf: “Perhaps she is in the country; she is looking at 
e@ same stars; and, for all I know, when I arrive at the 
‘staurant Robert may say to me: “Good news! I have 
st heard from my aunt; she wants to meet you; she is 
‘ming down here.’” It was not in the firmament alone 
fat I enshrined the thought of Mme. de Guermantes. 
| passing breath of air, more fragrant than the rest, 


157 


| 


: 
REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


seemed to bring me a message from her, as, long at 
from Gilberte in the cornfields of Meséglise. We do r 
change; we introduce into the feeling with which ’ 
regard a person many slumbering elements which th 
feeling revives but which are foreign to it. Besides, Wi 
these feelings for particular people, there is always som 
thing in us that is trying to bring them nearer to t 
truth, that is to say, to absorb them in a more genel 
feeling, common to the whole of humanity, with “a 
people and the suffering that they cause us are mere 
a means to enable us to communicate. What prong 
certain pleasure into my grief was that I knew it to 
a tiny fragment of the universal love. Simply because 
thought that I recognised sorrows which I had felt ( 
Gilberte’s account, or else when in the evenings at Cor. 
bray Mamma would not stay in any room, and also t: 
memory of certain pages of Bergotte, in the agony | 


| 


now felt, to which Mme. de Guermantes, her coldnes 


her absence, were not clearly linked, as cause is to effe| 
in the mind of a philosopher, I did not conclude th’ 
Mme. de Guermantes was not the cause of that ago 
Is there not such a thing as a diffused bodily pai 
extending, radiating out into other parts, which, howeve 
it leaves, to vanish altogether, if the practitioner lays h 
finger on the precise spot from which it springs? Ar 
yet, until that moment, its extension gave it for us § 
vague, so fatal a semblance that, powerless to expla’ 
or even to locate it, we imagined that there was 
possibility of its being healed. As I made my way 
the restaurant I said to myself: “A fortnight alrea 
since I last saw Mme. de Guermantes.” A fortnight whic 
did not appear so enormous an interval save to me, wh 
158 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


then Mme. de Guermantes was concerned, reckoned time 
ly minutes. For me it was no longer the stars and the 
reeze merely, but the arithmetical divisions of time that 
ssumed a dolorous and poetic aspect. Each day now was 
ke the loose crest of a crumbling mountain, down one 
ide of which I felt that I could fleaeeael into oblivion, 
ut down the other was borne by the necessity of seeing 
ae Duchess again. And I was continually inclining one 
ray or the other, having no stable equilibrium. One day 
| said to myself: “Perhaps there will be a letter to- 
ight; ’’ and on entering the dining-room I found cour- 
ee to ask Saint-Loup: 
“You don’t happen to have had any news from Paris?” 
“Yes,” he replied gloomily; “bad news.” 
iI Beeatlied a sigh of relief when I realised that it was 
nly he who was unhappy, and that the news came from 
is mistress. But I soon saw that one of its consequences 
iiald be to prevent Robert, for ever so long, from taking 
t€ to see his aunt. 
I learned that a quarrel had broken out between him 
ad his mistress, through the post presumably, unless 
ne had come down to pay him a flying visit between 
vains. And the quarrels, even when relatively slight, 
hich they had previously had, had always seemed as 
Mpgh they must prove insoluble. For she was a girl 
‘violent temper, who would stamp her foot and burst 
ito tears for reasons as incomprehensible as those that 
cake children shut themselves into dark cupboards, not 
yme out for dinner, refuse to give any explanation, 
ad only redouble their sobs when, our patience exhausted, 
e Visit them with a whipping. To say that Saint-Loup 
iffered terribly from this estrangement would be an 


159 


| 
REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


understatement of the truth, which would give the read: 
a false impression of his grief. When he found himse 
alone, the only picture in his mind being that of h 
mistress parting from him with the respect which st 
had felt for him at the sight of his energy, the anxietic 
which he had had at first gave way before the irreparabl| 
and the cessation of an anxiety is so pleasant a thin 
that the rupture, once it was certain, assumed for hi 
something of the same kind of charm as a reconciliatio; 
What he began to suffer from, a little later, was a secon 
ary and accidental grief, the tide of which flowed a 
santly from his own heart, at the idea that perhaps sh 
would be glad to make it up, that it was not inconceivab| 
that she was waiting for a word from him, that in th 
mean time, to be avenged on him, she would perhay, 
on a certain evening, in a certain place, do a certain thin) 
and that he had only to telegraph to her that he ri 
coming for it not to happen, that others perhaps well 
taking advantage of the time which he was letting shi 
and that in a few days it would be too late to recaptu 
her, for she would be already bespoke. Among all they 
possibilities he was certain of nothing; his mistress pr 
served a silence which wrought him up to such a frenz| 
of grief that he began to ask himself whether she migl 
_not be in hiding at Donciéres, or have sailed for the Indie 
It has been said that silence is a force; in another an 
widely different sense it is a tremendous force in th 
hands of those who are loved. It increases the anxiet 
of the lover who has to wait. Nothing so tempts us t 
approach another person as what is keeping us apart 
and what barrier is there so insurmountable as silence 
It has been said also that silence is a torture, capable ¢ 
160 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


| 
| 
| 
| 
ading to madness him who is condemned to it in a 
ison cell, But what a torture—keener than that of 
lving to keep silence—to have to endure the silence 
/ the person one loves! Robert asked himself: “What 
in she be doing, never to send me a single word, like 
lis? She hates me, perhaps, and will always go on hating 
i And he reproached himself. Thus her silence did 
Jeed drive him mad with jealousy and remorse. Be- 
les, more cruel than the silence of prisons, that kind 
silence is in itself a prison. An immaterial enclosure, 
admit, but impenetrable, this interposed slice of empty 
mosphere through which, despite its emptiness, the 
sual rays of the ah araitae lover cannot pass. Is there 
‘more terrible illumination than that of silence which 
‘ews us not one absent love but a thousand, and shews 
peach of them in the act of indulging in some fresh 
‘trayal? Sometimes, in an abrupt relaxation of his strain, 
obert would imagine that this period of silence was just 
‘ming to an end, that the long expected letter was on 
way. He saw it, it arrived, he started at every sound, 
3 thirst was already quenched, he murmured: “The 
ter! The letter!” After this glimpse of a phantom 
sis of affection, he found himself once more toiling 
ross the real desert of a silence without end. 
‘He suffered in anticipation, without a single omission, 
_ the griefs and pains of a rupture which at other 
dments he fancied he might somehow contrive to avoid, 
e people who put all their affairs in order with a view 
a migration abroad which they never make, whose 
‘nds, no longer certain where they will find themselves 
‘img next day, flutter helplessly for the time being, 
‘tached from them, like a heart that is taken out of a 
I P61 - K 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


dying man and continues to beat, though disjoined fr 
the rest of his body. Anyhow, this hope that his mistr 
would return gave him courage to persevere in the ruptt 
as the belief that one will return alive from the bat 
helps one to face death. And inasmuch as habit is,| 
all the plants of human growth, the one that has le 
need of nutritious soil in order to live, and is the f 
to appear upon what is apparently the most barren ro 


perhaps had he begun by effecting their rupture : 


feint he would in the end have grown genuinely acc 
tomed to it. But his uncertainty kept him in a state 
emotion which, linked with the memory of the wom 
herself, was akin to love. He forced himself, neverthele 
not to write to her, thinking perhaps that it was a } 
cruel torment to live without his mistress than with ]} 
in certain conditions, or else that, after the way in i 
they had parted, it was necessary to wait for excui 
from her, if she was to keep what he believed her| 
feel for him in the way, if not of love, at any rate | 
esteem and regard. He contented himself with going: 
the telephone, which had recently been installed at Dc 
ciéres, and asking for news from, or giving instructic: 
to a lady’s maid whom he had procured and placed w 
his friend. These communications were, as it turned o 
complicated and took up much of his time, since, }: 
fluenced by what her literary friends preached to k 
about the ugliness of the capital, but principally for t 
sake of her animals, her dogs, her monkey, her canar 
and her parrokeet, whose incessant din her Paris lan 
lord had declined to tolerate for another moment, ‘R 
ert’s mistress had now taken a little house in the neig 
bourhood of Versailles. Meanwhile he, down at Do 
162 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


éres, no longer slept a wink all night. Once, in my 
yom, overcome by exhaustion, he dozed off for a little. 
ut suddenly he began to talk, tried to get up and run, 
» stop something from happening, said: “I hear her; 
ou shan’t ... you shan’t....’ He awoke. He had 
ven dreaming, he explained to me, that he was in the 
puntry with the serjeant-major. His host had tried to 
sep him away from a certain part of the house. Saint- 
oup had discovered that the serjeant-major had stay- 
g with him a subaltern, extremely rich and extremely 
cious, whom he knew to have a violent passion for his 
istress. And suddenly in his dream he had distinctly 
tard the spasmodic, regular cries which his mistress 
as in the habit of uttering at the moment of grati- 
tation. He had tried to force the serjeant-major to 
ke him to the room in which she was. And the other 
id held him back, to keep him from going there, with 
1 air of annoyance at such a want of discretion in a 
test which, Robert said, he would never be able to 
rget. 

“Tt was an idiotic dream,” he concluded, still quite 
eathless. 

\All the same I could see that, during the hour that 
llowed, he was more than once on the point of telephon- 
g to his mistress to beg for a reconciliation. My father 
id now had the telephone for some time at home, but 
doubt whether that would have been of much use to 
ant-Loup. Besides, it hardly seemed to me quite proper 
'make my parents, or even a mechanical instrument 
stalled in their house, play pander between Saint-Loup 
d his mistress, ladylike and high-minded as the latter 
ght be. His bad dream began to fade from his memory. 
| 163 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST : 


With a fixed and absent stare, he came to see nel 
each of those cruel days which traced in my mind ; 
they followed one after the other the splendid sweep | 
a staircase forged in hard metal on which Robert stoc 
asking himself what decision his friend was. going to tak 
At length she wrote to ask whether he would coun 
to forgive her. As soon as he realised that a defini 
rupture had been avoided he saw all the disadvantag 
of a reconciliation. Besides, he had already begun 
suffer less acutely, and had almost accepted a grief t 
sharp tooth of which he would have, in a few mont] 
perhaps, to feel again if their i intimacy were to be i 
He did not hesitate for long. And perhaps he hesitate 
only because he was now certain of being able to reca' 
ture his mistress, of being able to do it and therefo, 
of doing it. Only she asked him, so that she might har 
time to recover her equanimity, not to come to Paris» | 
the New Year. Now he had not the heart to go to Pat 
without seeing her. On the other hand, she had declari 
her willingness to go abroad with him, but for that] | 
would need. to make a formal application for leave, whit 
Captain de Borodino was unwilling to grant. 
“Pm sorry about it, because of your meeting with n 
aunt, which will have to be put off. I dare say I she 
be in Paris at Easter.” i 
“We shan’t be able to call on Mme. de Guermaill 
then, because I shall have gone to Balbec. ae really, | 
nator matter in the least, I assure you.” | 
“To Balbec? But you didn’t go there till August.” 
“I know; but next year they’re making me go the: 
earlier, for my health.” | 
All that he feared was that I might form a bad i impre 
164 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


on of his mistress, after what he had told me. “She is 
olent simply because she is too frank, too thorough in 
sr feelings. But she is a sublime creature. You can’t 
aagine what exquisite poetry there is in her. She goes 
very year to spend All Souls’ Day at Bruges. ‘Nice’ 
: her, don’t you think? If you ever do meet her you'll 
te what I mean; she has a greatness. . . .” And, as he 
as infected with certain of the mannerisms used in the 
serary circles in which the lady moved: “There is 
omething sidereal about her, in fact something bardic; 
yu know what I mean, the poet merging into the priest.” 
I was searching all through dinner for a pretext which 
ould enable Saint-Loup to ask his aunt to see me with- 
It my having to wait until he came to Paris. Now such 
/pretext was furnished by the desire that I had to see 
me more pictures by Elstir, the famous painter whom 
uint-Loup and I had met at Balbec. A pretext behind 
hich there was, moreover, an element of truth, for if, 
i my visits to Elstir, what I had asked of his painting 
id been that it should lead me to the comprehension 
id love of things better than itself, a real thaw, an 
Ithentic square in a country town, live women on a 
rach (all the more would I have commissioned from it 
€ portraits of the realities which I had not been able 
‘fathom, such as a lane of hawthorn-blossoms, not so 
juch that it might perpetuate their beauty for me as that 
“might reveal that beauty to me), now, on the other 
ind, it was the originality, the seductive attraction of 
Ose paintings that aroused my desire, and what I 
anted above anything else was to look at other pictures 
r Elstir. 

It seemed to me, also, that the least of his pictures were 
165 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


| 
: 
something quite different from the masterpieces even 
greater painters than himself. His work was like a reall 
apart, whose frontiers were not to be passed, matchle 
in substance. Eagerly collecting the infrequent periodica 
in which articles on him and his work had appeared, 
had learned that it was only recently that he had begu 
to paint landscapes and still life, and that he had starte 
with mythological subjects (I had seen photographs « 
two of these in his studio), and had then been for lor 
under the influence of Japanese art. | 
Several of the works most characteristic of his vario1 
manners were scattered about the provinces. A certa 
house at Les Andelys, in which there was one of h 
finest landscapes, seemed to me as precious, gave me i 
keen a desire to go there and see it as did a village } 
the Chartres district, among whose millstone walls wi 
enshrined a glorious painted window; and towards tl 
possessor of this treasure, towards the man who, insi¢ 
his ugly house, on the main street, closeted like a 
astrologer, sat questioning one of those mirrors of tl 
world which Elstir’s pictures were, and who had perhay 
bought it for many thousands of francs, I felt myse 
borne by that instinctive sympathy which joins the vel 
hearts, the inmost natures of those who think alike up¢ 
a vital subject. Now three important works by m 
favourite painter were described in one of these articl 
as belonging to Mme. de Guermantes. So that it was, afti 
all, quite sincerely that, on the evening on which | 
Loup told me of his lady’s projected visit to Bruges, | 
was able, during dinner, in front of his friends, to ) 
fall, as though on the spur of the moment: : 
“Listen, if you don’t mind. Just one last word on tl 
166 | 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


abject of the lady we were speaking about. You remem- 

‘er Elstir, the painter I met at Balbec?” 

} «« Why, of course I do.” 

6 You remember how much I admired his work?” 

“TJ do, quite well; and the letter we sent him.” 

Peas Very well, one of the reasons—not one of the chief 

sasons, a subordinate reason—why I should like to meet 

ae said lady—you do know who’ I mean, don’t you?” 

'“Of course I do. How involved youre getting.” 

“Ts that she has in her house one very fine picture, 

+ least, by Elstir.” 

7 “Tsay, I never knew that.” 

“Elstir will probably be at Balbec at Easter; you 

aow he stays down there now all the year round, prac- 

cally. I should very much like to have seen this pedis: 

sfore I leave Paris. I don’t know whether you’re on 

ifficiently intimate terms with your aunt: but couldn’t 

du manage, somehow, to give her so good an impression 

* me that she won’t tics and then ask her if she’ll 

't me come and see the picture without you, since you 

‘on’t be there? ” 

““That’s all right. Vl answer for her; I’ll make a 

recial point of it.” 

“Oh, Robert, you are an angel; I do love you.” 

Rit’s very nice of you to love me, but it would be 

pally nice if you were to call me tu, as you promised, 

aid as you began to do.” 

bey hope it’s not your departure that you two are 

otting together,” one of Robert’s friends said to me. 

You know, if Saint-Loup does go on leave, it needn’t 

ake any. difference, we shall still be here. It will be 

ss amusing for you, perhaps, but we’ll do all we can 
167 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


to make you forget his absence.” As a matter of face! 
just as we had decided that Robert’s mistress would hav 
to go to Bruges by herself, the news came that Captain d 
Borodino, obdurate hitherto in his refusal, had give 
authority for Serjeant Saint-Loup to proceed on lon 
leave to Bruges. What had happened was this. c 
Prince, extremely proud of his luxuriant head of hair 
was an assiduous customer of the principal hairdresser i 
the town, who had started life as a boy under Napoleo 
III’s barber. Captain de Borodino was on the best ¢ 
terms with the hairdresser, being, in spite of his ai 
of majesty, quite simple in his dealings with his inferiors 
But the hairdresser, through whose books the Prince’ 
account had been running without payment for at leas 
five years, swollen no less by bottles of Portugal and Ea’ 
des Souverains, irons, razors, and strops, than by th 
ordinary charges for shampooing, haircutting and th 
like, had a greater respect for Saint-Loup, who alway 
paid on the nail and kept several carriages and “4 


horses. Having learned of Saint-Loup’s vexation at ne 
being able to go with his mistress, he had spoken strongl 
about it to the Prince at a moment when he was trusse! 
up in a white surplice with his head held firmly over th 
back of the chair and his throat menaced by a razor. Thi 
narrative of a young man’s gallant adventures won fror 
the princely captain a smile of Bonapartish indulgence’ 
It is hardly probable that he thought of his unpaid bil 
but the barber’s recommendation tended to put him 1 
as good a humour as one from a duke would have Pp 
him in a bad. While his chin was still smothered in SOay 
the leave was promised, and the warrant was signed the 
evening. As for the hairdresser, who was in the hab: 

168 


| 
| 
| 
| THE GUERMANTES WAY 
f boasting all day long of his own exploits, and in order 
2 do so claimed for himself, shewing an astonishing fac- 
Ity for lying, distinctions that were pure fabrications, 
vaving for once rendered this signal service to Saint-Loup, 
‘ot only did he refrain from publishing it broadcast, but, 
is if vanity were obliged to lie, and when there was no 
rope for lying gave place to modesty, he never men- 
oned the matter to Robert again. 
|All his friends assured me that, as long as I stayed 
t Donciéres, or if I should come there again at any 
me, even although Robert were away, their horses, 
leir quarters, their time would be at my disposal, and 
felt that it was with the greatest cordiality that these 
oung men put their comfort and youth and strength 
t the service of my weakness. 
“Why on earth,” they went on, after insisting that I 
aould stay, “don’t you come down here every year; 
du see how our quiet life appeals to you! Besides you’re 
) keen about everything that goes on in the Regiment; 
uite the old soldier.” 
For I continued my eager demands that they would 
assify the different officers whose names I knew accord- 
F to the degree of admiration which they seemed to 
eserve, just as, in my schooldays, I used to make the 
ther boys classify the actors of the Théatre-Francais. If, 
the place of one of the generals whom I had always 
vard mentioned at the head of the list, such as Galliffet 
Négrier, one of Saint-Loup’s friends, with a con- 
mptuous: “But Néerier is one of the feeblest of our 
‘eral officers,” put the new, intact, appetising name of 
au or Geslin de Bourgogne, I felt the same joyful sur- 
ise as long ago when the outworn name of Thiron 
169 


i 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


or Febvre was sent flying by the sudden explosion | 
the unfamiliar name of Amaury. “Better even tha 
Négrier? But in what respect; give me an example?” 
atest have liked there to exist profound differences eve 
among the junior officers of the regiment, and I hop« 
in the reason for these differences to seize the essenti! 
quality of what constituted military superiority. The or 
whom I should have been most interested to hear di 
cussed, because he was the one whom I had most ofte 
seen, was the Prince de Borodino. But neither Sain, 
Loup nor his friends, if they did justice to the fine offic! 
who kept his squadron up to the supreme pitch of ef 
ciency, liked the man. Without speaking of him, naturall| 
in the same tone as of certain other officers, rankers a1 
freemasons, who did not associate much with the re 
and had, in comparison, an uncouth, barrack-room ma 
ner, they seemed not to include M. de Borodino amol' 
the officers of noble birth, from whom, it must be a 
mitted, he differed considerably in his attitude even t 
wards Saint-Loup. The others, taking advantage of t} 
fact that Robert was only an N.C.O., and that therefo: 
his influential relatives might be grateful were he invitil 
to the houses of superior officers on whom ordinarily thy 
would have looked down, lost no opportunity of havix 
him to dine when any bigwig was expected who mig: 
be of use to a young cavalry serjeant. Captain de Bor- 
dino alone confined himself to his official relations (whic, 
for that matter, were always excellent) with Robert. T} 
{act was that the Prince, whose grandfather had bei 
made a Marshal and a Prince-Duke by the Emperor, wit 
whose family he had subsequently allied himself by me 
riage, while his father had married a cousin of Napole! 

170 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


II and had twice been a Minister after the Coup d’Etat, 
‘]t that in spite of all this he did not count for much 
vith Saint-Loup and the Guermantes connexion, who in 
‘urn, since he did not look at things from the same point 
'{ view as they, counted for very little with him. He 
uspected that, for Saint-Loup, he himself was—he, a 
‘insman of the Hohenzollern—not a true noble but the 
Hihdson of a farmer, but at the same time he regarded 
yaint-Loup as the son of a man whose Countship had 
‘een confirmed by the Emperor—one of what were known 
‘a the Faubourg Saint-Germain as “ touched-up ” Counts 
—and who had besought him first for a Prefecture, then 
‘or some other post a long way down the list of subor- 
linates to His Highness the Prince de Borodino, Minister 
‘f State, who was styled on his letters “ Monseigneur ” 
snd was a nephew of the Sovereign. 

/ Something more than a nephew, possibly. The first 
Princesse Be Borodino was reputed to have bestowed her 
avours on Napoleon I, whom she followed to the Isle 
xf Elba, and the ond hers on Napoleon III. And if, 
m the Captain’s placid countenance, one caught a trace 
of Napoleon I—if not in his natural features, at least in 
the studied majesty of the mask—the officer had, par- 
‘icularly in his melancholy and kindly gaze, in his droop- 
mg moustache, something that reminded one also of 
Napoleon III; and this in so striking a fashion that, 
qaving asked leave, after Sedan, to join the Emperor in 
taptivity, and having been sent away by Bismarck, before 
whom he had been brought, the latter, happening to look 
ap at the young man who was preparing to leave the 
oom, was at once impressed by the likeness and, re- 


Miisidering his decision, recalled him and gave him the 


by 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


authorisation which he, in common with every one els) 
had just been refused. | 

If the Prince de Borodino was not prepared to mak 
overtures to Saint-Loup nor to the other representatim! 
of Faubourg Saint-Germain society that there were j 
the regiment (while he frequently invited two subalterr 
of plebeian origin who were pleasant companions) it we 
because, looking down upon them all from the height ¢ 
his Imperial grandeur, he drew between these two class 
of inferiors the distinction that one set consisted of ir 
feriors who knew themselves to be such and with who 
he was delighted to spend his time, being beneath hi 
outward majesty of a simple, jovial humour, and tl 
other of inferiors who thought themselves his superiors, 
claim which he could not allow. And so, while all t 
other officers of the regiment made much of Saint-Lou| 
the Prince de Borodino, to whose care the young man ha 
been recommended by Marshal X , confined himse 


Saint-Loup always performed in the most exemplar 
fashion, but never had him to his house except on or 
special occasion when he found himself practically con! 
pelled to invite him, and when, as this occurred durir 
my stay at Donsiared he asked him to bring me to dinni 
also. I had no difficulty that evening, as I watched Sain) 
Loup sitting at his Captain’s table, in distinguishing, i 
their respective manners and refinements, the differeni 
that existed between the two aristocracies: the old nobilis 
and that of the Empire. The offspring of a caste th 
faults of which, even if he repudiated them with all tl 
force of his intellect, had been absorbed into his bloo 
a caste which, having ceased to exert any real authorit 


L72 


| 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


or at least a century, saw nothing more now in the 
‘rotective affability which formed part of its regular 
purse of education, than an exercise, like horsemanship 

¢ fencing, cultivated without any serious purpose, as a 
ort; on meeting representatives of that middle class 
jn which the old Robility so far looked down as to believe 
jat they were flattered by its intimacy and would be 
Jonoured by the informality of its tone, Saint-Loup would 
ake the hand of no matter who might be introduced 
) him, though he had failed perhaps to catch the 
janger’s name, in a friendly grip, and as he talked to 
im (crossing and uncrossing his legs all the time, fling- 
ag himself back in his chair in an attitude of absolute 
‘mconstraint, one foot in the palm of his hand) call him 
imy dear fellow.” Belonging on the other hand to a 
jobility whose titles still preserved their original mean- 
ag, provided that their holders still possessed the splendid 
imoluments given in reward for glorious services and 
\ringing to mind the record of high offices in which one 
4) in command of numberless men and must know how 
9 deal with men, the Prince de Borodino—not perhaps 
very distinctly or with any clear personal sense of superi- 
rity, but at any rate in his body, which revealed it by 
§ attitudes and behaviour generally—regarded his own 
ank as a prerogative that was still effective; those same 
ommoners whom Saint-Loup would have slapped on the 
houlder and taken by the arm he addressed with a 
aajestic affability, in which a reserve instinct with gran- 
‘eur tempered the smiling good-fellowship that came 
jaturally to him, in a tone marked at once by a genuine 
andliness and a stiffness deliberately assumed. This was 
ue, no doubt, to his being not so far removed from the 


173 


| 


eS . 
arab 


| 


| 
REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST | | 


great Embassies, and the Court itself, at which his fathe 
had held the highest posts, wheteas the manners of Sail 
Loup, the elbow on the table, the foot in the hand, wouk 
not have been well received there; but principally it wa. 
due to the fact that he looked down less upon the middl| 
classes because they were the inexhaustible source fron 
which the first Emperor had chosen his Marshals ani 
his nobles and in which the second had found a Roukel 
and a Fould. 
Son, doubtless, or grandson of an Emperor, who | 
nothing more important to do than to command a squad 
ron, the preoccupations of his putative father and grand 
father could not, for want of an object on which to faster 
themselves, survive in any real sense in the mind of M. d 
Borodino. But as the spirit of an artist continues ti 
model, for many years after he is dead, the statue whic) 
he carved, so they had taken shape in him, were material 
ised, incarnate in him, it was they that his face reflected 
It was with, in his voice, the vivacity of the first Empero 
that he worded a reprimand to a corporal, with th 
dreamy melancholy of the second that he puffed out th 
smoke of a cigarette. When he passed in plain clothe 
through the streets of Donciéres, a certain sparkle in hi 
eyes escaping from under the brim of the bowler ha 
sent radiating round this captain of cavalry a rega 
incognito; people trembled when he strode into the ser 
jeant-major’s office, followed by the adjutant and th 
quartermaster, as though by Berthier and Masséna. Wher 
he chose the cloth for his squadron’s breeches, he fastene 
on the master-tailor a gaze capable of baffling Talleyran 
and deceiving Alexander; and at times, in the middh 
of an inspection, he would stop, let his handsome blu 


174 


——— 


a 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


yyes cloud with dreams, twist his moustache, with the 
ir of one building up a new Prussia and a new Italy. 
jut a moment later, reverting from Napoleon Lieto 
Napoleon I, he would point out that the equipment was 
ot Bee Psrly polished, and would insist on tasting the 
aen’s rations. And at home, in his private life, it was 
or the wives of middle class officers (provided that their 
jusbands were not freemasons) that he would bring out 
ot only a dinner service of royal blue Sévres, fit for an 
ambassador (which had been given to his father by 
Napoleon, and appeared even more priceless in the com- 
aonplace house on a provincial street in which he was 
ving, like those rare porcelains which tourists admire 
vith a special delight in the rustic china- “cupboard of 
‘ome old manor that has been converted into a com- 
ortable and prosperous farm house), but other gifts of 
ihe Emperor also: those noble and charming manners, 
thich too would have won admiration in some dinfeumce 
Jost abroad, if, for some men, it did not mean a lifelong 
emnation to the most unjust form of ostracism, 
aerely to be well born; his easy gestures, his kindness, 
is grace, and, embedding beneath an enamel that was 
f royal blue, also glorious images, the mysterious, illu- 
ainated, living reliquary of his gaze. And, in treating 
f the social relations with the middle classes which the 
’rince had at Donciéres, it may be as well to add these 
ew words. The Beaten el played the piano beau- 
‘fully; the senior medical officer’s wife sang like a Con- 
‘tvatoire medallist. This latter couple, as well as the 
eutenant-colonel and his wife, used to dine every week 
mith M. de Borodino. They were flattered, unquestion- 
bly, knowing that when the Prince went to Paris on 


175 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


leave he dined with Mme. de Pourtalés, and the Murats 
and people like that. “But,” they said to themselves 
“he’s just a captain, after all; he’s only too glad to ge 
us to come. Still, he’s a real friend, you know.” Bu 
when M. de Borodino, who had long been pulling every 
possible wire to secure an appointment for himsel; 
nearer Paris, was posted to Beauvais, he packed up anc 
went, and forgot as completely the two musical couple; 
as he forgot the Donciéres theatre and the little restau. 
rant to which he used often to send out for his luncheon 
and, to their great indignation, neither the lieutenant 
colonel nor the senior medical officer, who had so ofter 
sat at his table, ever had so much as a single word from 
him for the rest of their lives. 
One morning, Saint-Loup confessed to me that he hac 
written to my grandmother to give her news of me, witk 
the suggestion that, since there was telephonic connexion 
between Paris and Donciéres, she might make use of j 
to speak to me. In short, that very day she was to give 
me a call, and he advised me to be at the post office 
at about a quarter to four. The telephone was not ye 
at that date as commonly in use as it is to-day. And ye 
habit requires so short a time to divest of their mystery 
the sacred forces with which we are in contact, that, not 
having had my call at once, the only thought in my mind 
was that it was very slow, and badly managed, and I 
almost decided to lodge a complaint. Like all of us now- 
adays I found not rapid enough for my liking in its 
abrupt changes the admirable sorcery for which a few 
moments are enough to bring before us, invisible but 
present, the person to. whom. we have been wishing to 
speak, and who, while still sitting at his table, in the 
176 ; 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


ywn in which he lives (in my grandmother’s case, Paris), 
nder another sky than ours, in weather that is not neces- 
irily the same, in the midst of circumstances and worries 
f which we know nothing, but of which he is going to 
iform us, finds himself suddenly transported hundreds 
{miles (he and all the surroundings in which he remains 
‘amured) within reach of our ear, at the precise moment 
yhich our fancy has ordained. And we are like the person 
i the fairy-tale to whom a sorceress, on his uttering the 
lish, makes appear with supernatural clearness his grand- 
‘other or his betrothed in the act of turning over a book, 
= shedding tears, of gathering flowers, quite close to the 
yectator and yet ever so remote, in the place in which 
ae actually is at the moment. We need only, so that the 
uiracle may be accomplished, apply our lips to the magic 
vifice and invoke—occasionally for rather longer than 
sems to us necessary, I admit—the Vigilant Virgins to 
hose voices we listen every day without ever coming to 
now their faces, and who are our Guardian Angels in 
1e dizzy realm of darkness whose portals they so jeal- 
sly keep; the All Powerful by whose intervention the 
sent rise up at our side, without our being permitted 
) set eyes on them; the Danaids of the Unseen who 
ithout ceasing empty, fill, transmit the urns of sound; 
te ironic Furies who, just as we were murmuring a con- 
dence to a friend, in the hope that no one was listening, 
y brutally: “I hear you! ”; the ever infuriated servants 
the Mystery, the umbrageous priestesses of the In- 
sible, the Young Ladies of the Telephone. 

'And, the moment our call has sounded, in the night 
Jed with phantoms to which our ears alone are unsealed, 
tiny sound, an abstract sound—the sound of distance 


1 177 L 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


overcome—and the voice of the dear one speaks to us. 
It is she, it is her voice that is speaking, that is there 
But how remote it is! How often have I been unable t’ 
listen without anguish, as though, confronted by the i im 
possibility of seeing, except after long hours of | journeying 
her whose voice has been so close to my ear, I felt mor 
clearly the sham and illusion of meetings apparently mos 
pleasant, and at what a distance we may be from th 
people we love at the moment when it seems that we hav 
only to stretch out our hand to seize and hold them. A reg 
presence indeed that voice so near—in actual separatior| 
But a premonition also of an eternal separation! Ovye| 
and again, as I listened in this way, without seeing he 
who spoke to me from so far away, it has seemed to m 
that the voice was crying to me from depths out of whic! 
one does not rise again, and I have known the anxiety tha| 
was one day to wring my heart when a voice should thu 
return (alone, and attached no longer to a body which | 
was never more to see), to murmur, in my ear, words | 
would fain have kissed as they issued from lips for eve) 
turned to dust. 
This afternoon, alas, at Donciéres, the miracle did no 
occur. When I reached the post office, my grandmother’ 
call had already been received; I stepped into the box! 
the line was engaged; some one was talking who probabh 
did not realise that there was nobody to answer him, fo 
when I raised the receiver to my ear, the lifeless bloc! 
began squeaking like Punchinello; I silenced it, as on) 
silences a puppet, by putting it back on its hook, but, lik: 
Punchinello, as soon as I took it again in my hand, it re’ 
sumed its gabbling. At length, giving it up as hopeless 
by hanging up the receiver once and for all, I stifled th’ 
178 


-~-—— — 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


onvulsions of this vociferous stump which kept up its 
hatter until the last moment, and went in search of the 
perator, who told me to wait a little; then I spoke, and, 
fter a few seconds of silence, suddenly I heard that voice 
thich I supposed myself, mistakenly, to know so well; 
ne always until then, every time that my grandmother 
ad talked to me, I had been accustomed to follow what 
‘he was saying on the open score of her face, in which the 
yes figured so largely; but her voice itself I was hearing 
is afternoon for the first time. And because that voice 
ppeared to me to have altered in its proportions from 
je moment that it was a whole, and reached me in this 
ray alone and without the accompaniment of her face 
nd features, I discovered for the first time how sweet 
aat voice was; perhaps, too, it had never been so sweet, 
or my grandmother, knowing me to be alone and un- 
appy, felt that she might let herself go in the outpouring 
f an affection which, on her principle of education, she 
sually restrained and kept hidden. It was sweet, but 
Iso how sad it was, first of all on account of its very 
weetness, a sweetness drained almost—more than any 
ut a few human voices can ever have been—of every 
lement of resistance to others, of all selfishness; fragile 
'y reason of its delicacy it seemed at every moment ready 
D break, to expire in a pure flow of tears; then, too, hav- 
ig it alone beside me, seen, without the mask of her 
ace, I noticed for the first time the sorrows that had 
carred it in the course of a lifetime. 

| Was it, however, solely the voice that, because it was 
lone, gave me this new impression which tore my heart? 
Jot at all; it was rather that this isolation of the voice 
vas like a symbol, a presentation, a direct consequence 


179 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST . 


of another isolation, that of my grandmother, separa 
for the first time in my life, from myself. The orders or 
prohibitions which she addressed to me at every moment 
in the ordinary course of my life, the tedium of obedience 
or the fire of rebellion which neutralised the affection that 
I felt for her were at this moment eliminated, and indeed 
might be eliminated for ever (since my grandmother no 
longer insisted on having me with her under her control, 
was in the act of expressing her hope that I would stay 
at Donciéres altogether, or would at any rate extend my 
visit for as long as possible, seeing that both my health 
and my work seemed likely to benefit by the change); 
also, what I held compressed in this little bell that | 
ringing in my ear was, freed from the conflicting pressures, 
which had, every day hitherto, given it a counterpoise, and 
from this moment irresistible, carrying me altogetiah 
away, our mutual affection. My grandmother, by telling 
me to stay, filled me with an anxious, an insensate me 

f 


7 


to return. This freedom of action which for the future 
she allowed me and to which I had never dreamed that 
she would consent, appeared to me suddenly as sad as) 
might be my freedom of action after her death (when ii 
should still love her and she would for ever have aban- 
doned me). “Granny!” I cried to her, “ Granny!” and 
would fain have kissed her, but I had beside me only) 
that voice, a phantom, as impalpable as that which would | 
come perhaps to revisit me when my grandmother was 
dead. “Speak to me!” but then it happened that, left 
more solitary still, I ceased to catch the sound of her, 
voice. My grandmother could no longer hear me; she 
was no longer in communication with me; we had ceased 
to stand face to face, to be audible to one another; I con- 


180 


; 
. 


a 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


tinued to call her, sounding the empty night, in which I 
“elt that her appeals also must be straying. I was shaken 
by the same anguish which, in the distant past, I had felt 
‘nce before, one day when, a little child, in a crowd, I had 
‘ost her, an anguish due less to my not finding her than 
so the thought that she must be searching for me, must 
De saying to herself that I was searching for her; an 
anguish comparable to that which I was to feel on the 
lay when we speak to those who can no longer reply and 
whom we would so love to have hear all the things that 
ve have not told them, and our assurance that we are 
1ot unhappy. It seemed as though it were already a be- 
oved ghost that I had allowed to lose herself in the 
shostly world, and, standing alone before the instrument, 
» went on vainly repeating: “Granny! Granny!” as 
Jrpheus, left alone, repeats the name of his dead wife. I 
lecided to leave the post office, to go and find Robert at his 
‘estaurant, in order to tell him that, as I was half expect- 
ng a telegram which would oblige me to return to Paris, 
. wished at all costs to find out at what times the trains 
eft. And yet, before reaching this decision, I felt I must 
nake one attempt more to invoke the Daughters of the 
Night, the Messengers of the Word, the Deities without 
orm or feature; but the capricious Guardians had not 
leigned once again to unclose the miraculous portals, or 
‘aore probably, had not been able; in vain might they 
Mptinsly appeal, as was their custom, to the venerable 
Aventor of printing and the young prince, collector of 
Mpressionist paintings and driver of motor-cars (who 
‘Vas Captain de Borodino’s nephew) ; Gutenberg and 
Vagram left their supplications unanswered, and I came 
way, feeling that the Invisible would continue to turn a 
181 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


deaf ear. S 
When I came among Robert and his friends, I with 
held the confession that my heart was no longer with then 
that my departure was now irrevocably fixed. Saint-Lou 
appeared to believe me, but I learned afterwards that k 
had from the first moment realised that my uncertally 
was feigned and that he would not see me again next dav 
And while, letting their plates grow cold, his friends joine 
him in searching through the time-table for a train whic 
would take me to Paris, and while we heard in th 
cold, starry night the whistling of the engines on the ling 
I certainly felt no longer the same peace of mind whic| 
on all these last evenings I had derived from the frienc 
ship of the former and the latter’s distant passage. An’ 
yet they did not fail me this evening, performing the sam 
office in a different way. My departure overpowered m| 
less when I was no longer obliged to think of it by mysel: 
when I felt that there was concentrated on what was t 
be done the more normal, more wholesome activity of m 
strenuous friends, Robert’s brothers in arms, and of thos 
other strong creatures, the trains, whose going and com 
ing, night and morning, between Donciéres and Paris 
broke up in retrospect what had been too compact ani 
insupportable in my long isolation from my grandmothe 
into daily possibilities of return. 
“TI don’t doubt the truth of what you're saying, or tha 
you aren’t thinking of leaving us Just yet,” said Saint 
Loup, smiling; “ but pretend you are going, and com 
and say good-bye to me to-morrow morning; early, other 
wise there’s a risk of my not seeing you; I’m going out ti 
luncheon, T’ve got leave from the Captain; I shall have ti 


: 
be back in barracks by two, as we are to be on the marcel 


182 . | 


i 


—-—- 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


ill afternoon. I suppose the man to whose house I’m 
joing, a couple of miles out, will manage to get me back 
in time.” 

Scarcely had he uttered these words when a messenger 
ame for me from my hotel; the telephone operator had 
‘ent to find me. I ran to the post office, for it was nearly 
losing time. The word “trunks ” recurred incessantly in 
she answers given me by the officials. I was in a fever of 
jnxiety, for it was my grandmother who had asked for 
ae. The office was closing for the night. Finally I got 
fay connexion. “Is that you, Granny?” A woman’s voice, 
vith a strong English accent, answered: “Yes, but I 
on’t know your voice.” Neither did I recognise the voice 
that was speaking to me; besides, my grandmother called 
ae tu, and not vous. And then all was explained. The 
young man for whom his grandmother had called on the 
telephone had a name almost identical with my own, and 
fas staying in an annex of my hotel. This call coming 
mn the very day on which I had been telephoning to my 
mrandmother, I had never for a moment doubted that 
: was she who was asking for me. Whereas it was by 
jure coincidence that the post office and the hotel had 
vombined to make a twofold error. 
| Ihe following morning I rose late, and failed to catch 
aint-Loup, who had already started for the country 
jouse where he was invited to luncheon. About half past 
jne, I had decided to go in any case to the barracks, so as 
2 be there before he arrived, when, as I was crossing 
me of the avenues on the way there, I noticed, coming 
ehind me in the same direction as myself, a tilbury 
rhich, as it overtook me, obliged me to jump out of its 
yay; an N.C.O. was driving it, wearing an eyeglass; it was 
183 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST | 


Saint-Loup. By his side was the friend whose guest |, 
had been at luncheon, and whom I had met once befo: 
at the hotel where we dined. I did not dare shout ) 
Robert since he was not alone, but, in the hope th 
he would stop and pick me up, I attracted his attentid 
by a sweeping wave of my hat, which might be regarde 
as due to the presence of a stranger. I knew that Robe 
was short-sighted; still, I should have supposed that, pri 
vided he saw me at all, he could not fail to recognise mi 
he did indeed see my salute, and returned it, but withor 
stopping; driving on at full speed, without a smile, witl 
out moving a muscle of his face, he confined himself 1 
keeping his hand raised for a minute to the peak of h 
cap, as though he were acknowledging the salute of / 
trooper whom he did not know personally. I ran to th. 
barracks, but it was a long way; when I arrived, the reg 
ment was parading on the square, on which I was nc | 
allowed to stand, and I was heart-broken at not havin 
been able to say good-bye to Saint-Loup; I went up t 
his room, but he had gone; I was reduced to questionin: 
a group of sick details, recruits who had been excuse 
route-marches, the young graduate, one of the “old so 
diers ”, who were watching the regiment parade, a 
“You haven’t seen Serjeant Saint-Loup, have you, bi 

any chance?” I asked. 
“ He’s gone on parade, sir,” said the old soldier. | 
“T never saw him,” said the graduate. ap 
“You never saw him,” exclaimed the old soldier, losin 
all interest in me, “ you never saw our famous Saint-Lour 
the figure he’s cutting with his new breeches! When th 
Capstan sees that, officer’s cloth, my word!,” ‘aE 
“Oh, you’re a wonder, you are; officer’s cloth,” repliet 
184 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


he young graduate, who, reported “sick in quarters ”, A 
vas excused marching and tried, not without some mis- 
‘ivings, to be on easy terms with the veterans. “ This 
ifficer’s cloth you speak of is cloth like that, is it?” 
/ “Sir?” asked the old soldier angrily. 
| He was indignant that the young graduate should 
hrow doubt on the breeches’ being made of officer’s 
doth, but, being a Breton, coming ae a village that: 
went by the name of Penguern-Stereden, having learned 
Wrench with as much difficulty as if it had been English 
a German, whenever he felt himself overcome by emo- 
jon he would go on saying “ Sir?” to give himself time 
o find words, then, after this preparation, let loose his 
loquence, confining himself to the repetition of certain 
yvords which he knew better than others, but without 
iaste, taking every precaution to glose over his unfa- 
niliarity with the pronunciation. 
|“ Ah! It is cloth like that,’ he broke out, with a fury 
he intensity of which increased as the speed of his utter- 
ince diminished. “ Ah! It is cloth like that; when I tell 
‘ou that it is, officer’s cloth, when-I-tell-you-a-thing, if-I 
ell-you-a-thing, it’s because I know, I should think.” 
| “Very well, then; ” replied the young graduate, over- 
‘ome by the force of this argument. “ Keep your hair on, 
ild boy.” 
| “There, look, there’s the Capstan coming along. No, 
mut just look at Saint-Loup; the way he throws his leg 
yut; and his head. Would you call that a non-com? And 
jis eyeglass; oh, he’s hot stuff, he is.” 
| I asked these troopers, who did not seem at all em- 
varrassed by my presence, whether I too might look out 
the window. They neither objected to my doing so 
185 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


| 
| 

nor moved to make room for me. I saw Captain de Bor 
dino go majestically by, putting his horse into a trot, | 
apparently under the illusion that he was taking part i 
the Battle of Austerlitz. A few loiterers had stopped t 
the gate to see the regiment file out. Erect on his charge 
his face inclined to plumpness, his cheeks of an Imperi 
fulness, his eye lucid, the Prince must have been t! 
victim of some hallucination, as I was myself wheneve 
after the tramway-car had passed, the silence that followe 
its rumble seemed to me to throb and echo with a vague! 
musical palpitation. I was wretched at not having sai 
good-bye to Saint-Loup, but I went nevertheless, for m 
one anxiety was to return to my grandmother; alway 
until then, in this little country town, when I thought ¢ 
what my grandmother must be doing by herself, I ha’ 
pictured her as she was when with me, suppressing m 
own personality but without taking into account the effec 
of such a suppression; now, I had to free myself, at th 
first possible moment, in her arms, from the phanton 
hitherto unsuspected and suddenly called into being b 
her voice, of a grandmother really separated from m 
resigned, having, what I had never yet thought of her A 
having, a definite age, who had just received a letter fror 
me in an empty house, as I had once before imagine 
Mamma in a house by herself, when I had left her to 2 
to Balbec. / 
Alas, this phantom was just what I did see whe 
entering the drawing-room before my grandmother ha 
been told of my return, I found her there, reading. I wa 
in the room, or rather I was not yet in the room sinc 
she was not aware of my presence, and, like a woma 
whom one surprises at a piece of work which she will la 
186 | 


| THE GUERMANTES WAY 


,side if anyone comes in, she had abandoned herself to a 
ain of thoughts which she had never allowed to be visible 
yme. Of myself—thanks to that privilege which does not 
ast but which one enjoys during the brief moment of 
yeturn, the faculty of being a spectator, so to speak, of 
me’s own absence,—there was present only the witness, 
lhe observer, with a hat and travelling coat, the stranger 
tho does not belong to the house, the photographer who 
sas called to take a photograph of places which one will 
sever see again. The process that mechanically occurred 
a my eyes when I caught sight of my grandmother was 
adeed a photograph. We never see the people who are 
ear to us save in the animated system, the perpetual mo- 
ion of our incessant love for them, which before allowing 
he images that their faces present to reach us catches 
fem in its vortex, flings them back upon the idea that 
re have always had of them, makes them adhere to it, 
coincide with it. How, since into the forehead, the cheeks 
f my grandmother I had been accustomed to read all the 
rost delicate, the most permanent qualities of her mind; 
Ow, since every casual glance is an act of necromancy, 
fai face that we love a mirror of the past, how could I 
ave failed to overlook what in her had become dulled and 
hanged, seeing that in the most trivial spectacles of our 
aily life, our eye, charged with thought, neglects, as 
rould a classical tragedy, every image that does not 
ssist the action of the play and retains only those that 
iay help to make its purpose intelligible. But if, in place 
{ our eye, it should be a purely material object, a photo- 
aphic plate, that has watched the action, then what we 
all see, in the courtyard of the Institute, for example, 
all be, instead of the dignified emergence of an Academi- 
187 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST | 


cian who is going to hail a cab, his staggering gait, his 
precautions to avoid tumbling upon his back, the parab. 
ola of his fall, as though he were drunk, or the grounc ' 
frozen over. So is it when some casual sport of chanei 
prevents our intelligent and pious affection from coming 
forward in time to hide from our eyes what they ough: 
never to behold, when it is forestalled by our eyes, and. 
they, arising first in the field and having it to themselves) 
set to work mechanically, like films, and shew us, II 
place of the loved friend who has long ago ceased ti 


exist but whose death our affection has always hitherti 
kept concealed from us, the new person whom a hundre 
times daily that affection has clothed with a dear anc 
cheating likeness. And, as a sick man who for long ha. 
not looked at his own reflexion, and has kept his memory | 
of the face that he never sees refreshed from the idea 
image of himself that he carries in his mind, recoils or 
catching sight in the glass, in the midst of an arid wasti. 
of cheek, of the sloping red structure of a nose as huge ai 
one of the pyramids of Egypt, I, for whom my grand 
mother was still myself, I who had never seen her sav 4 
in my own soul, always at the same place in the past. 
through the transparent sheets of contiguous, overlappini 
memories, suddenly in our drawing-room which forme: 
part of a new world, that of time, that in which dwell th’ 
strangers of whom we say “ He’s begun to age a goo 
deal,” for the first time and for a moment only, since shi 
vanished at once, I saw, sitting on the sofa, beneath thi 
lamp, red-faced, heavy and common, sick, lost in thought 
following the lines of a book with eyes that seemed hardly 
sane, a dejected old woman whom I did not know. _ 
My request to be allowed to inspect the Elstirs in Mme 
188 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


+ Guermantes’s collection had been met by Saint-Loup 
lit. “J will answer for her.” And indeed, as ill luck 
ould have it, it was he and he alone who did answer. 
Je answer readily enough for other people when, setting 
jr mental stage with the little puppets that represent 
hem, we manipulate these to suit our fancy. No doubt 
yen then we take into account the difficulties due to an- 
ther person’s nature being different from our own, and 
e do not fail to have recourse to some plan of action 
kely to influence that nature, an appeal to his material 
iterest, persuasion, the rousing of emotion, which will 
eutralise contrary tendencies on his part. But these dif- 
frences from our own nature, it is still our own nature 
hat is imagining them, these difficulties, it is we that are 
aising them; these compelling motives, it is we that are 
ipplying them. And so with the actions which before 
ur mind’s eye we have made the other person rehearse, 
ind which make him act as we choose; when we wish to 
3e him perform them in real life, the case is altered, we 
ome up against unseen resistances which may prove 1n- 
uperable. One of the strongest is doubtless that which 
jiay be developed in a woman who is not in love with him 
y the disgust inspired in her, a fetid, insurmountable 
sathing, by the man who is in love with her; during the 
mg weeks in which Saint-Loup still did not come to 
Waris, his aunt, to whom I had no doubt of his having 
‘ritten begging her to do so, never once asked me to 
jall at her house to see the Elstirs. 

| I perceived signs of coldness on the part of another 
‘ccupant of the building. This was Jupien. Did he con- 
ider that I ought to have gone in and said how d’ye do 
') him, on my return from Donciéres, before even going 


189 


= 


| 


THE GUERMANTES WAY | 


upstairs to our own flat? My mother said no, that thes 
was nothing unusual about it. Francoise had told he 
that he was like that, subject to sudden fits of ill humou 
without any cause. These invariably passed off after 
little time. { 

Meanwhile the winter was drawing to an end. Or 
morning, after several weeks of showers and storms 


‘4 


‘ 


heard in my chimney—instead of the wind, formles 


elastic, sombre, which convulsed me with a longing “ 


to the sea—the cooing of the pigeons that were nesti 
in the wall outside; shimmering, unexpected, like a firy 
hyacinth, gently tearing open its fostering heart that thet 
might shoot forth, purple and satin-soft, its flower ¢: 
sound, letting in like an opened window into my bedrolll 
still shuttered and dark the heat, the dazzling brightnes: 
the fatigue of a first fine day. That morning, I was sur 
prised to find myself humming a music-hall tune whic’ 
had never entered my head since the year in which I ha 
been going to Florence and Venice. So profoundly doe 
the atmosphere, as good days and bad recur, act on ou 
organism and draw from dim shelves where we had for 
gotten them, the melodies written there which our memor' 
could not decipher. Presently a more conscious dreame 
accompanied this musician to whom I was listening insid) 
myself, without having recognised at first what he wa 


I quite realised that it was not for any reason peculia, 
to Balbec that on my arrival there I had failed to fing 
in its church the charm which it had had for me before | 
knew it; that at Florence or Parma or Venice my imagi 
nation could no more take the place of my eyes when | 
looked at the sights there. I realised this. Similarly, oni 

190 


| 
| THE GUERMANTES WAY 
; ew Year’s afternoon, as night fell, standing before a 
jlumn of playbills, I had discovered the illusion that lies 
our thinking that certain solemn holidays differ essen- 
lly from the other days in the calendar. And yet I 
vuld not prevent my memory of the time during which 
ihad looked forward to spending Easter in Florence from 
mtinuing to make that festival the atmosphere, so to 
yeak, of the City of Flowers, to give at once to Easter 
lay something Florentine and to Florence something 
i... Easter was still a long way off; but in the range 
‘days that stretched out before me the days of Holy 
Teek stood out more clearly at the end of those that 
verely came between. Touched by a far flung ray, like 
srtain houses in a village which one sees from a distance 
then the rest are in shadow, they had caught and kept 
‘il the sun. 
The weather had now become milder. And my parents 
aemselves, by urging me to take more exercise, gave me 
in excuse for resuming my morning walks. I had meant 
) give them up, since they meant my meeting Mme. de 
uermantes. But it was for this very reason that I kept 
ainking all the time of those walks, which led to my find- 
ig, every moment, a fresh reason for taking them, a rea- 
on that had no connexion with Mme. de Guermantes and 
0 difficulty in convincing me that, had she never existed, 
{should still have taken a walk, without fail, at that hour 
very morning. 
' Alas, if te me meeting any person other than herself 
‘ould not have mattered, I felt that to her meeting anyone 
athe world except myself would have been endurable. It 
appened that, in the course of her morning walks, she 
sceived the salutations of plenty of fools whom she re- 


| 19I 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


garded as such. But the appearance of these in her pat 
seemed to her, if not to hold out any promise of pleasur 
to be at any rate the result of mere accident. And sh 
stopped them at times, for there are moments in whic 
one wants to escape from oneself, to accept the hospitalit 
offered by the soul of another person, provided alway 
that the other, however modest and plain it may be, is | 
different soul, whereas in my heart she was exasperate, 
to feel that what she would have found was herself. An 
so, even when I had, for taking the same way as she, ar 
other reason than my desire to see her, I trembled like 
guilty man as she came past; and sometimes, so as 


> 


neutralise anything extravagant that there might seer) 
to have been in my overtures, I would barely acknowled 
her bow, or would fasten my eyes on her face co 
raising my hat, and succeed only in making her angrie 
than ever, and begin to regard me as insolent and il) 
bred besides. 

She was now wearing lighter, or at any rate a 
clothes, and would come strolling down the street in whic 
already, as though it were spring, in front of the narrov 
shops that were squeezed in between the huge fronts ¢ 
the old aristocratic mansions, over the booths of the buttei 
woman and the fruit-woman and the vegetable-womar 
awnings were spread to protect them from the sun. I sai! 
to myself that the woman whom I could see far off, walk’ 
ing, opening her sunshade, crossing the street, was, in th 
opinion of those best qualified to judge, the greatest livin 
exponent of the art of performing those movements an 
of making out of them something exquisitely lovely 
Meanwhile she was advancing towards me, unconsciou 
of this widespread reputation, her narrow, stubborn bod | 

192 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


thich had absorbed none of it, was bent stifly forward 
fader a scarf of violet silk; her clear, sullen eyes looked 
ysently in front of her, and had perhaps caught sight of 
€; she was biting her lip; I saw her straighten her muff, 
ve alms to a beggar, buy a bunch of violets from a 
pwer-seller, with the same curiosity that I should have 
It in watching the strokes of a great painter’s brush. 
ind when, as she reached me, she gave me a bow that was 
‘companied sometimes by a faint smile, it was as though 
'e had sketched in colour for me, adding a personal in- 
‘iption to myself, a drawing that was a masterpiece of 
it. Each of her gowns seemed to me her natural, necessary 
‘rroundings, like the projection around her of a particular 
ipect of her soul. On one of these Lenten mornings, 
en she was on her way out to luncheon, I met her wear- 
iz. a gown of bright red velvet, cut slightly open at the 
(toat. The face of Mme. de Guermantes appeared to be 
feaming, beneath its pile of fair hair. I was less sad than 
jual because the melancholy of her expression, the sort of 
justration which the startling hue of her gown set be- 
een her and the rest of the world, made her seem some- 
w lonely and unhappy, and this comforted me. The 
wn struck me as being the materialisation round about 
of the scarlet rays of a heart which I did not recognise 
ihers and might have been able, perhaps, to console; 
feltered in the mystical light of the garment with its 
atly flowing folds, she made me think of some Saint of 
@ early ages of Christianity. After which I felt ashamed 
me cting with the sight of myself this holy martyr. 
Sut, after all, the streets are public.” 

The streets are public, I reminded myself, giving a dif- 
‘ent meaning to the words, and marvelling that indeed 


193 M 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST | 


in the crowded thoroughfare often soaked with rain, whi 
made it beautiful and precious as a street sometimes 
in the old towns of Italy, the Duchesse de Guermant 
mingled with the public life of the world moments of h 
own secret life, shewing herself thus to all and sundr, 
jostled by every passer-by, with the splendid gratuito. 
ness of the greatest works of art. As I had been out in th 
morning, after staying awake all night, in the afterno 
my parents would tell me to lie Bowe for a little and t 
to sleep. There is no need, when one is trying to find sle 
to give much thought to the quest, but habit is very u 
ful, and even freedom from thought. But in these = 


SiS 15 


——$»— 


noon hours both were lacking. Before going to sleep,l 
devoted so much time to thinking that I should not } 
able to sleep, that even after I was asleep a little of 

thought remained. It was no more than a glimmer in t 
almost total darkness, but it was bright enough to cast 
reflexion in my ee first of the idea that I could nt 
sleep, and then, a reflexion of this reflexion, that it ws 
in my sleep that I had had the idea that I was not aslet, 
then, by a further refraction, my awakening... to2 
fresh doze in which I was trying to tell some friends w 
had come into my room that, a moment earlier, when 
was asleep, I had imagined that I was not asleep. Th 
shades were barely distinguishible; it would have requi 
a keen—and quite useless—delicacy of perception to se! 
them all. Similarly, in later years, at Venice, long af 
the sun had set, when it seemed to be quite dark, I ha 
seen, thanks to the echo, itself imperceptible, of a li 
note of light, held indefinitely on the surface of the cané. 
as though some optical pedal were being pressed, the - 
flexion of the palaces unfurled, as tnough for all time, 1 


194 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


(rker velvet, on the crepuscular greyness of the water. 
ine of my dreams was the synthesis of what my imagina- 
im had often sought to depict, in my waking hours, of a 
(rtain seagirt place and its mediaeval past. In my sleep 
saw a gothic fortress rising from a sea whose waves were 
‘led as in a painted window. An arm of the sea cut the 
fn in two; the green water stretched to my feet; it 
hed on the opposite shore the foundations of an oriental 
urch, and beyond it houses which existed already in the 
i a century, so that to go across to them would 
we been to ascend the stream of time. This dream in 
ich nature had learned from art, in which the sea had 
ined gothic, this dream in which I longed to attain, in 
wich I believed that I was attaining to the impossible, 
jseemed to me that I had often dreamed it before. But 
it is the property of what we imagine in our sleep to 
altiply itself in the past, and to appear, even when 
vel, familiar, I supposed that I was mistaken. I no- 
ved, however, that I did frequently have this dream. 
The limitations, too, that are common to all sleep were 
lected in mine, but in a symbolical manner; I could not 
ithe darkness make out the faces of the friends who were 
‘the room, for we sleep with our eyes shut; I, who 
ld carry on endless arguments with myself while I 
tamed, as soon as I tried to speak to these friends felt 
|} words stick in my throat, for we do not speak dis- 
‘tly in our sleep; I wanted to go to them, and I could 
i move my limbs, for we do not walk when we are 
l2ep either; and suddenly I was ashamed to be seen by 
/m, for we sleep without our clothes. So, my eyes 
ded, my lips sealed, my limbs fettered, my body naked, 
| figure of sleep which my sleep itself projected had the 


195 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


appearance of those great allegorical figures (in one { 
which Giotto has portrayed Envy with a serpent in h 
mouth) of which Swann had given me photographs. 

Saint-Loup came to Paris for a few hours only. ] 
came with assurances that he had had no opportunity 
mentioning me to his cousin. “She’s not being at all ng 
just now, Oriane isn’t,” he explained, with innocent se 
betrayal. “She’s not my old Oriane any longer, they¢ 
gone and changed her. I assure you, it’s not worth wh 
bothering your head about her. You pay her far too gry 
a compliment. You wouldn’t care to meet my cout 
Poictiers?” he went on, without stopping to reflect tl} 
this could not possibly give me any pleasure. “ Quite 
intelligent young woman, she is; you’ld like her. Shy 


fellow, but a bit slow for her. I’ve told her about yu 
She said I was to bring you to see her. She’s much betij 
looking than Oriane, and younger, too. Really a nice pi 
son, don’t you know, really a good sort.” These were « 
pressions recently—and all the more ardently—taken § 
by Robert, which meant that the person in question k 
a delicate nature. “I don’t go so far as to say she 
Dreyfusard, you must remember the sort of people 4 
lives among; still, she did say to me: ‘If he is innoce 
how ghastly for him to be shut up on the Devil’s Is 
You see what I mean, don’t you? And then she’s the s@ 
of woman who does a tremendous lot for her old g@ 
ernesses; she’s given orders that they’re never to be sit 
in by the servants’ stair, when they come to the how, 
She’s a very good sort, I assure you. The real rea| 
why Oriane doesn’t like her is that she feels she’s @ 
cleverer of the two.” , | 
196 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 
| Although completely absorbed in the pity which she 


It for one of the Guermantes footmen—who had no 
aance of going to see his girl, even when the Duchess was 
ut, for it would immediately have been reported to her 
om the lodge,—Francoise was heartbroken at not having 
‘een in the house at the moment of Saint-Loup’s visit, 
ut this was because now she herself paid visits also. She 
ever failed to go out on the days when I most wanted 
er. It was always to see her brother, her niece and, more 
articularly, her own daughter, who had recently come to 
ive in Paris. The intimate nature of these visits itself 
icreased the irritation that I felt at being deprived of her 
arvices, for I had a foreboding that she would speak of 
hem as being among those duties from which there was 
0 dispensation, according to the laws laid down at Saint- 
)ndré-des-Champs. And so I never listened to her excuses 
Mithout an ill humour which was highly unjust to her, and 
vas brought to a climax by the way Frangoise had of say- 
ig not: “I have been to see my brother,” or “I have 
een to see my niece,” but “I have been to see the 
‘rother,” “I just looked in as I passed to bid good day to 
he niece” (or “to my niece the butcheress”). As for her 
laughter, Francoise would have been glad to see her re- 
am to Combray. But this recent Parisian, making use, 
ike a woman of fashion, of abbreviations, though hers 
ere of a vulgar kind, protested that the week she was 
ding shortly to spend at Combray would seem quite long 
hough without so much as a sight of “the Jntran”. She 
as still less willing to go to Francoise’s sister, who lived 
. a mountainous country, for “mountains,” said the 
aughter, giving to the adjective a new and terrible mean- 
g, “aren’t really interesting.” She could not make up 


197 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


her mind to go back to Méséglise, where “the people ar 
so stupid,” where in the market the gossips at their stall 
would call cousins with her, and say “ Why, it’s nev 
poor Bazireau’s daughter?” She would sooner die tha 
go back and bury herself down there, now that she ha 
“tasted the life of Paris,” and Francoise, traditionalist a 
she was, smiled complacently nevertheless at the spin 
of innovation that was incarnate in this new Parisia 
when she said: “ Very well, mother, if you don’t get you 
day out, you have only to send me a pneu.” 
The weather had turned chilly again. “Go out? Wha 
for? To catch your death?” said Frangoise, who preferre 
to remain in the house during the week which her daughte 
and brother and the butcher-niece had gone to spend 
Combray. Being, moreover, the last surviving adherer 
of the sect in whom persisted obscurely the doctrin 
of my aunt Léonie—a natural philosopher—Frangoi 
would add, speaking of this unseasonable weather: “] 
is the remnant of the wrath of God!” But I responde 
to her complaints only in a languid smile; all the mor 
indifferent to these predictions, in that whatever befell | 
would be fine for me; already I could see the mornin 
sun shine on the slope of Fiesole, I warmed myse 
in its rays; their strength obliged me to half-oper 
‘half-shut my eyelids, smiling the while, and my eyelid 
like alabaster lamps, were filled with a rosy glow. It we 
not only the bells that came from Italy, Italy had com 
with them. My faithful hands would not lack flowers 1 
honour the anniversary of the pilgrimage which I ougl 

to have made long ago, for since, here in Paris, the weat 
had turned cold again as in another year at the time ¢ 
our preparations for departure at the end of Lent, in th 
198 


a Oe ws 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


iquid, freezing air which bathed the chestnuts and planes 
in the boulevards, the tree in the courtyard of our house, 
ihere were already opening their petals, as in a bowl of 
sure water, the narcissi, the jonquils, the anemones of the 
vonte Vecchio. 

| My father had informed us that he now knew, from his 
riend A. J., where M. de Norpois was going when he met 
im about the place. 

| “It’s to see Mme. de Villeparisis, they are great friends; 
never knew anything about it. It seems she’s a delight- 
il person, a most superior woman. You ought to go and 
all on her,” he told me. “ Another thing that surprised 
ae very much. He spoke to me of M. de Guermantes as 
juite a distinguished man; I had always taken him for a 
oor. It seems, he knows an enormous amount, and has 
jerfect taste, only he’s very proud of his name and his 
onnexions. But for that matter, according to Norpois, 
e has a tremendous position, not only here but all over 
urope. It appears, the Austrian Emperor and the Tsar 
reat him just like one of themselves. Old Norpois told 
re that Mme. de Villeparisis had taken quite a fancy to 
ou, and that you would meet all sorts of interesting 
eople in her house. He paid a great tribute to you; you 
nll see him if you go there, and he may have some good 
dvice for you even if you are going to be a writer. For 
jou're not likely to do anything else; I can see that. 
t might turn out quite a good career; it’s not what I 
nould have chosen for you, myself; but you'll be a man 
1 no time now, we shan’t always be here to look after 
ou, and we mustn’t prevent you from following your 
ocation.” 

‘Tf only I had been able to start writing! But what- 


199 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


ever the conditions in which I approached the task (a 
too, alas, the undertakings not to touch alcohol, to gt 
to bed early, to sleep, to keep fit), whether it wer, 
with enthusiasm, with method, with pleasure, in deprivin 
myself of a walk, or postponing my walk and keeping i 1 
in reserve as a reward of ee taking advantage fo} 
an hour of good health, utilising the inactivity forced oO: 
me by a day of illness, what always emerged in the en 
from all my effort was a virgin page, undefiled by am 
writing, ineluctable as that forced card which in certal! 
_ tricks one invariably is made to draw, however carefull: 
one may first have shuffled the pack. I was merely th! 
instruments of habits of not working, of not going to bec 
of not sleeping, which must find expression somehow, cos| 
what it might; if I offered them no resistance, if I con 
tented myself with the pretext they seized from the firs 
opportunity that the day afforded them of acting as the’ 
chose, I escaped without serious injury, I slept for a fey 
hours after all, towards morning, I read a little, I did nc 
over-exert myself; but if I attempted to thwart them, if | 
pretended to go to bed early, to drink only water, to work 
they grew restive, they adopted strong measures, the! 
made me really ill, I was obliged to double my dose 0 
alcohol, did not lie down in bed for two days and nights o! 
end, could not even read, and I vowed that another tim) 
I would be more reasonable, that is to say less wise, lik’ 
the victim of an assault who allows himself to be robbe| 
for fear, should he offer resistance, of being murdered. 
My father, in the mean time, had met M. de Guerman) 
tes once or twice, and, now that M. de Norpois had toll 
him that the Duke was a remarkable man, had begun t 
pay more attention to what he said. As it happened, the § 
200 | 


| THE GUERMANTES WAY 


et in the courtyard and discussed Mme. de Villeparisis. 
‘He tells me, she’s his aunt; ‘ Viparisi,’ he pronounces it. 
Te tells me, too, she’s an extraordinarily able woman, In 
‘act he said she kept a School of Wit,’ my father an- 
ounced to us, impressed by the vagueness of this ex- 
ression, which he had indeed come across now and then 
1 volumes of memoirs, but without attaching to it any 
efinite meaning. My mother, so great was her respect 
ix him, when she saw that he did not dismiss as of no 
mportance the fact that Mme. de Villeparisis kept a 
chool of Wit, decided that this must be of some conse- 
uence. Albeit from my grandmother she had known all 
ne time the exact amount of the Marquise’s intellectual 
‘orth, it was immediately enhanced in her eyes. My 
‘randmother, who was not very well just then, was not 
4 favour at first of the suggested visit, and afterwards lost 
aterest in the matter. Since we had moved into our new 
at, Mme. de Villeparisis had several times asked my 
randmother to call upon her. And invariably my grand- 
tother had replied that she was not going out just at 
resent, in one of those letters which, by a new habit of 
‘ers which we did not understand, she no longer sealed 
erself, but employed Francoise to lick the envelopes for 
er. As for myself, without any very clear picture in my 
und of this School of Wit, I should not have been greatly 
irprised to find the old lady from Balbec installed be- 
ind a desk, as, for that matter, I eventually did. 

My father would have been glad to know, into the bar- 
ain, whether the Ambassador’s support would be worth 
jany votes to him at the Institute, for which he had 
ioughts of standing as an independent candidate. To 
al the truth, while he did not venture to doubt that he 
201 


—— 


} 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


would have M. de Norpois’s support, he was by no mean 
certain of it. He had thought it merely malicious Ossi] 
when they assured him at the Ministry that M. de Nor 
pois, wishing to be himself the only representative ther) 
of the Institute, would put every possible obstacle in th’ 
way of my father’s candidature, which besides would b 
particularly awkward for him at that moment, since h) 
was supporting another candidate already. And yet, whej 
M. Leroy-Beaulieu had first advised him to stand, and hai 
reckoned up his chances, my father had been struck bi 
the fact that, among the colleagues upon whom he cou 
count for support, the eminent economist had not men| 
tioned M. de Norpois. He dared not ask the Ambassado} 
point-blank, but hoped that I should return from my cal 
on Mme. de Villeparisis with his election as good as se 
cured, This call was now imminent. That M. de Norpoi| 
would carry on propaganda calculated to assure m} 
father the votes of at least two thirds of the Academy 
seemed to him all the more probable since the Ambassa 
dor’s willingness to oblige was proverbial, those who like 
him least admitting that no one else took such pleasun 
in being of service. And besides, at the Ministry, his pro 
tective influence was extended over my father far mor 
markedly than over any other official. 

My father had also another encounter about this time 
but one at which his extreme surprise ended in equa| 
indignation. In the street one day he ran into Mme 
Sazerat, whose life in Paris her comparative poverty re 
stricted to occasional visits to a friend. There was no on 
who bored my father quite so intensely as did Mme 
Sazerat, so much so that Mamma was obliged, once a year 
to intercede with him in sweet and suppliant tones: “ My} 

202 


aa bee 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


ear, I really must invite Mme. Sazerat to the house, 
ist once; she won’t stay long; ” and even: “ Listen, dear, 
| am going to ask you to make a great sacrifice; do go 
ind call upon Mme. Sazerat. You know I hate bothering 
ou, but it would be so nice of you.” He would laugh, 
aise various objections, and go to pay the call. And so, 
e all that Mme. Sazerat did not appeal to him, on catch- 
ig sight of her in the street my father went towards her, 
fat in hand; but to his profound astonishment Mme. 
azerat confined her greeting to the frigid bow enforced by 
‘oliteness towards a person who is guilty of some dis- 
taceful action or has been condemned to live, for the 
ature, in another hemisphere. My father had come home 
peechless with rage. Next day my mother met Mme. 
azerat in some one’s house. She did not offer my mother 
‘er hand, but only smiled at her with a vague and melan- 
holy air as one smiles at a person with whom one used 
9 play as a child, but with whom one has since severed 
Il one’s relations because she has led an abandoned life, 
as married a convict or (what is worse still) a co-re- 
pondent. Now, from all time my parents had accorded 
o Mme. Sazerat, and inspired in her, the most profound 
espect. But (and of this my mother was ignorant) Mme. 
jazerat, alone of her kind at Combray, was a Dreyfusard. 
Ay father, a friend of M. Méline, was convinced that 
Dreyfus was guilty. He had flatly refused to listen to 
ome of his colleagues who had asked him to sign a peti- 
ion demanding a fresh trial. He never spoke to me for 
.week, after learning that I had chosen to take a different 
ine. His opinions were well known. He came near to be- 
ng looked upon as a Nationalist. As for my grandmother, 
no whom alone of the family a generous doubt was likely 
203 


REMEMBRANCE OF.THINGS PAST 


to be kindled, whenever anyone spoke to her of the pos 
sible innocence of Dreyfus, she gave a shake of her heag 
the meaning of which we did not at the time understand 
but which was like the gesture of a person who has bee 
interrupted while thinking of more serious things. M 
mother, torn between her love for my father and her hop| 
that I might turn out to have brains, preserved an im 
partiality which she expressed by silence. Finally m: 
grandfather, who adored the Army (albeit his duties wit! 
the National Guard had been the bugbear of his ripe! 
years), could never, at Combray, see a regiment go by th 
garden railings without baring his head as the colonel ani 
the colours passed. All this was quite enough to mak’ 
Mme. Sazerat, who knew every incident of the disi 
terested and honourable careers of my father and grand 
father, regard them as pillars of Injustice. We pardor 
the crimes of individuals, but not their participation in / 
collective crime. As soon as she knew my father to be a 
anti-Dreyfusard she set between him and herself con 
tinents and centuries. Which explains why, across suc 
an interval of time and space, her bow had been imper 
ceptible to my father, and why it had not occurred to he! 
to hold out her hand, or to say a few words which would 
never have carried across the worlds that lay between. | 
Saint-Loup, who was coming anyhow to Paris, ha 
promised to take me to Mme. de Villeparisis’s, where 
hoped, though I had not said so to him, that we migh 
meet Mme. de Guermantes. He invited me to luncheo 
in a restaurant with his mistress, whom we were after 
wards to accompany to a rehearsal. We were to go ou 
in the morning and call for her at her home on the out 
skirts of Paris. 


204 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


{Thad asked Saint-Loup that the restaurant to which we 
‘ent for luncheon (in the lives of young noblemen with 
soney to spend the restaurant plays as important a part 
5 do bales of merchandise in Arabian stories), might, if 
ossible, be that to which Aimé had told me that he would 
2 going as head waiter until the Balbec season started. 
{ was a great attraction to me who dreamed of so many 
peditions and made so few to see again some one who 
ormed part not merely of my memories of Balbec but of 
jalbec itself, who went there year after year, who when. 
) health or my studies compelled me to stay in Paris 
ould be watching, just the same, through the long July 
‘ternoons while he waited for the guests to come in to 
mner, the sun creep down the sky and set in the sea, 
rough the glass panels of the great dining-room, behind 
thich, at the hour when the light died, the motionless 
ings of vessels, smoky blue in the distance, looked like 
sotic and nocturnal moths in a show-case. Himself mag- 
stised by his contact with the strong lodestone of Balbec, 
is head waiter became in turn a magnet attracting me. 
‘hoped by talking to him to get at once into communica- 
on with Balbec, to have realised here in Paris some- 
ing of the delights of travel. 

I left the house early, with Francoise complaining bit- 
tly because the footman who was engaged to be married 
ad once again been prevented, the evening before, from ° 
ding to see his girl. Francoise had found him in tears; he 
ad been itching to go and strike the porter, but had re- 
tained himself, for he valued his place. 

Before reaching Saint-Loup’s, where he was to be wait- 
g for me at the door, I ran into Legrandin, of whom 
e had lost sight since our Combray days, and who, 

205 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


though now grown quite grey, had preserved his air | 
youthful candour. Seeing me, he stopped: | 

“Ah! So it’s you,” he exclaimed, “a man of fashio 
and in a frock coat too! That is a livery in which mf 
independent spirit would be ill at ease. It is true that ye 
are a man of the world, I suppose, and go out payir| 
calls! To go and dream, as I do, before some ha 
ruined tomb, my flowing tie and jacket are not out ! 
place. You know how I admire the charming quality | 
your soul; that is why I tell you how deeply I regret th, 
you should go forth and deny it among the Gentiles. E 
being capable of remaining for a moment in the nausea, 
ing atmosphere—which I am unable to breathe—of ! 
drawing-room, you pronounce on your own future tl) 
condemnation, the damnation of the Prophet. I can s¢ 
it all, you frequent the “light hearts’, the houses of tl! 
great, that is the vice of our middle class to-day. Al) 
Those aristocrats! The Terror was greatly to blame f 
not cutting the heads off every one of them. They at 
all sinister debauchees, when they are not simply drear| 
idiots. Still, my poor boy, if that sort of thing amusé¢ 
you! While you are on your way to your tea-party you 
old friend will be more fortunate than you, for alone in a 
outlying suburb he will be watching the pink moon ris 
in a violet sky. The truth is that I scarcely belong to th’ 
Earth upon which I feel myself such an exile; it takes a 
the force of the law of gravity to hold me here, to keep m 
from escaping into another sphere. I belong to a differer 
planet. Good-bye; do not take amiss the old-time frank 
ness of the peasant of the Vivonne, who has also remaine 
a peasant of the Danube. To prove to you that I am you 
sincere well-wisher, I am going to send you my last nove 

206 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


3t you will not care for it; it is not deliquescent enough, 
_ fin de siécle enough for you; it is too frank, too hon- 
i; what you want is Bergotte, you have confessed it, high 
ine for the jaded palates of pleasure-seeking epicures. 
‘uppose I am looked upon, in your set, as an old cam- 
gner; I do wrong to put my heart into what I write, 
It is no longer done; besides, the life of the people is 
|: distinguished enough to interest your little snobbicules. 
|, get you gone, try to recall at times the words of 
irist: ‘Do this and ye shall live.’ Farewell, Friend.” 
‘t was not with any particular resentment against 
izrandin that I parted from him. Certain memories are 
i2 friends in common, they can bring about reconcilia- 
‘ns; set down amid fields starred with buttercups, upon 
ich were piled the ruins of feudal greatness, the little 
foden bridge still joined us, Legrandin and me, as it 
ined the two banks of the Vivonne. 

‘After coming out of a Paris in which, although spring 
‘d begun, the trees on the boulevards had hardly put 
their first leaves, it was a marvel to Saint-Loup and 
‘self, when the circle train had set us down at the 
urban village in which his mistress was living, to 
; every cottage garden gay with huge festal altars of 
uit trees in blossom. It was like one of those peculiar, 
‘stical, ephemeral, local festivals which people travel 
ng distances to attend on certain fixed occasions, only 
s one was held by Nature. The bloom of the cherry 
'e is stuck so close to its branches, like a white sheath, 
it from a distance, among the other trees that shewed 
yet scarcely a flower or leaf, one might have taken it, 
this day of sunshine that was still so cold, for snow, 
‘Ited everywhere else, which still clung to the bushes. 

207 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


But the tall pear trees enveloped each house, each mod¢ 
courtyard in a whiteness more vast, more uniform, me 
dazzling, as if all the dwellings, all the enclosed spaces | 
the village were on their way to make, on one solen| 
date, their first communion. 
It had been a country village, and had kept its ¢| 
mayor’s office sunburned and brown, in front of whic, 
in the place of maypoles and streamers, three tall pe’ 
trees were, as though for some civic and local festiy| 
gallantly beflagged with white satin. These villages 
the environs of Paris still have at their gates parks | 
the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries which were t} 
“follies” of the stewards and favourites of the gre; 
A fruit-grower had utilised one of these which was sui 
below the road for his trees, or had simply, perhaj| 
preserved the plan of an immense orchard of form 
days. Laid out in quincunxes, these pear trees, le 
crowded and not so far on as those that I had see, 
formed great quadrilaterals—separated by low walls} 
of snowy blossom, on each side of which the light f| 
differently, so that all these airy roofless chambers seem| 
to belong to a Palace of the Sun, such as one might u: 
earth in Crete or somewhere; and made one think al 
of the different ponds of a reservoir, or of those parts 
the sea which man, for some fishery, or to plant oyste 
beds has subdivided, when one saw, varying with t 
orientation of the boughs, the light fall and play up 
their trained arms as upon water warm with spring, al 
coax into unfolding here and there, gleaming amid t 
open, azure-panelled trellis of the branches, the foami 
whiteness of a creamy, sunlit flower. | 
Never had Robert spoken to me so tenderly of his frie! 
208 


hag 


| THE GUERMANTES WAY 


he did during this walk. She alone had taken root in 
; heart; his future career in the Army, his position in 
ciety, his family, he was not, of course, indifferent alto- 
ther to these, but they were of no account compared 
th the veriest trifle that concerned his mistress. That 
me had any importance in his eyes, infinitely more im- 
ittance than the Guermantes and all the kings of the 
th put together. I do not know whether he had for- 
tiated the doctrine that she was of a superior quality to 
yone else, but I do know that he considered, took trouble 
ly about what affected her. Through her and for her he 
s capable of suffering, of being happy, perhaps of doing 
lider. There was really nothing that interested, that 
ald excite him except what ee mistress wished, was 
. ng to do, what was going on, discernable at most in 
sting changes of expression, in the narrow expanse of her 
ve and behind her privileged brow. So nice-minded in’ 
) else, he looked forward to the prospect of a brilliant 
: riage, solely in order to be able to continue to main- 
a her, to keep her always. If one had asked oneself what 
is the value that he set on her, I doubt whether one 
ild ever have imagined a figure high enough. If he did 
‘marry her, it was because a practical instinct warned 
2 that as soon as she had nothing more to expect from 
a she would leave him, or would at least live as she 
we, and that he must retain his hold on her by keeping 
in suspense from day to day. For he admitted the 
sibility that she did not love him. No doubt the general 
‘ction called love must have forced him—as it forces 
men—to believe at times that she did. But in his heart 
hearts he felt that this love which she felt for him did 
exhaust the possibility of her remaining with him only 
209 N 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


on account of his money, and that on the day when s: 
had nothing more to expect from him she would ma: 
haste (the dupe of her friends and their literary theori, 
and loving him all the time, really—he thought) to lea: 
him. “If she is nice to me to-day,” he confided to me, 
am going to give her something that she'll like. It’s a neq 
lace she saw at Boucheron’s. It’s rather too much for x 
just at present—thirty thousand francs. But, poor p 
she gets so little pleasure out of life. She will be jo) 
pleased with it, I know. She mentioned it to me and td 
me she knew somebody who would perhaps cate it to hr 
I don’t believe that is true, really, but I wasn’t taking a 
risks, so ’ve arranged with Boucheron, who is our fam} 
jeweller, to keep it for me. I am glad to think that you 
going to meet her; she’s nothing so very wondertult 
look at, you know,” (I could see that he thought just i 
opposite and had said this only so as to make me, whe! 
did see her, admire her all the more) “what she has }j 
is a marvellous judgment; she’ll perhaps he afraid to tk 
much before you, but, by Jove! the things she'll says 
me about you afterwards, you know she says things ¢ 
can go on thinking about for hours; there’s really sor} 
thing about her that’s quite Pythian.” | 

On our way to her house we passed by a row of lit 
gardens, and I was obliged to stop, for they were | 
aflower with pear and cherry blossom; as empty, no dout 
and lifeless only yesterday as a house that no tenant |} 
taken, they were suddenly peopled and adorned by thi 
newcomers, arrived during the night, whose lovely wh} 
garments we could see through any. railings ce | 
garden paths. | 

“Listen; I can see you'ld rather stop and look att 

210 


if 


ns 


| 


| 
THE GUERMANTES WAY 


iff, and grow poetical about it,” said Robert, “so just 
vit for me here, will you; my friend’s house is quite close, 
vill go and fetch her.” 

While I waited I strolled up and down the road, past 
se modest gardens. If I raised my head I could see, 
‘w and then, girls sitting in the windows, but outside, in 
2 open air, and at the height of a half-landing, here and 
ore, light and pliant, in their fresh pink gowns, hanging 
tong the leaves, young lilac-clusters were letting them- 
ves be swung by the breeze without heeding the passer- 
/ who was turning his eyes towards their green mansions. 
[recognised in them the platoons in violet uniform 
sted at the entrance to M. Swann’s park, past the little 
“ite fence, in the warm afternoons of spring, like an 
chanting rustic tapestry. I took a path which led me 
0 a meadow. A cold wind blew keenly along it, as at 
‘mbray, but from the midst of the rich, moist, country 
1, which might have been on the bank of the Vivonne, 
mre had nevertheless arisen, punctual at the trysting 
ice like all its band of brothers, a great white pear tree 


bs waved smilingly in the sun’s face, like a curtain 
light materialised and made palpable, its flowers shaken 
the breeze but polished and frosted with silver by the 
Ys rays. 

suddenly Saint-Loup appeared, accompanied by his 
stress, and then, in this woman who was for him all the 
(eg, every possible delight in life, whose personality, mys- 
tously enshrined in a body as in a Tabernacle, was the 
ject that still occupied incessantly the toiling imagina- 
1 of my friend, whom he felt that he would never really 
Ww, as to whom he was perpetually asking himself what 
ld be her secret self, behind the veil of eyes and flesh, 
211 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


in this woman I recognised at once “ Rachel when from tl 
Lord”, her who, but a few years since—women chang 
their position so rapidly in that world, when they C 
change—used to say to the procuress: “ To-morrow eve} 
ing, then, if you want me for anyone, you will ser 
round, won’t you?” | 
And when they had “come round” for her, ae s| 
found herself alone in the room with the “ anyone”, sl) 
had known so well what was required of her that aft! 
locking the door, as a prudent woman’s precaution or 
ritual gesture, she would begin to take off all her thing) 
as one does before the doctor who is going to sound oné 
chest, never stopping in the process unless the “ some one’ 
not caring for nudity, told her that she might keep on hi 
shift, as specialists do sometimes who, having an e} 
tremely fine ear and being afraid of their patient’s cate| 
ing a chill, are satisfied with listening to his breathing ar 
the beating of his heart through his shirt. On this wom 
whose whole life, all her thoughts, all her past, all t) 
men who at one time or another had had her were to rj 
so utterly unimportant that if she had begun to tell 
about them I should have listened to her only out of polit 
ness, and should barely have heard what she said, I ft 
that the anxiety, the torment, the love of Saint-Loup hi 
been concentrated in such a way as to make—out of wh; 
.. was for me a mechanical toy, nothing more—the cause | 
endless suffering, the very object and reward of existen¢ 
Seeing these two elements separately (because I had knoy 
“Rachel when from the Lord” in a house of ill fame 
I realised that many women for the sake of whom mi 
live, suffer, take their lives, may be in themselves or fi 
other people what Rachel was for me. The idea that ai 
212 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


e could be tormented by curiosity with regard to her 
2 stupefied me. I could have told Robert of any number 
¢ her unchastities, which seemed to me the most unin- 
testing things in the world. And how they would have 
ined him! And what had he not given to learn them, 
ythout avail! 

I realised also then all that the human imagination can } 
yt behind a little scrap of face, such as this girl’s face | 
1s, if it is the imagination that was the first to know it; | 
d conversely into what wretched elements, crudely ma- 

‘ial and utterly without value, might be decomposed 

iat had been the inspiration of countless dreams if, on 

e contrary, it should be so to speak controverted by the 

ghtest actual acquaintance. I saw that what had ap-. 
ared to me to be not worth twenty francs when it had 

ien offered to me for twenty francs in the house of ill 

me, where it was then for me simply a woman desirious 

/earning twenty francs, might be worth more than a 

illion, more than one’s family, more than all the most 

veted positions in life if one had begun by imagining her \ 
-embody a strange creature, interesting to know, diffi- | 
It to seize and to hold. No doubt it was the same thin 
d narrow face that we saw, Robert and I. But we had 
tived at it by two opposite ways, between which there 
aus no communication, and we should never both see it 
pm the same side. That face, with its stares, its smiles, 
e movements of its lips, I had known from outside as 
ing simply that of a woman of the sort who for twenty 
ancs would do anything that I asked. And so her stares, 
r smiles, the movements of her lips had seemed to me 
mificant merely of the general actions of a class without 
y distinctive quality. And beneath them I should not 

: 213 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


have had the curiosity to look for a person. But what: 
me had in a sense been offered at the start, that consen 
ing face, had been for Robert an ultimate goal towar) 
which he had made his way through endless hopes ar 
doubts, suspicions, dreams. He gave more than a milli 
francs in order to have for himself, in order that the 
might not be offered to others what had been offered | 
me, as to all and sundry, for a score. That he too shou 
not have enjoyed it at the lower price may have been d 
to the chance of a moment, the instant in which she wl 
seemed ready to yield herself makes off, having perha 
an assignation elsewhere, some reason which makes h 
more difficult of access that day. Should the man be 
sentimentalist, then, even if she has not observed it, b’ 
infinitely more if she has, the direst game begins. Unab| 
to swallow his disappointment, to make himself forg. 
about the woman, he starts afresh in pursuit, she flies hit 
until a mere smile for which he no longer ventured + 
hope is bought at a thousand times what should have bee 
the price of the last, the most intimate favours. It happe 
even at times in such a case, when one has been led by 
mixture of simplicity in one’s judgment and cowardice ' 
the face of suffering to commit the crowning folly of mal 
ing an inaccessible idol of a girl, that these last favour 
or even the first kiss one is fated never to obtain, one 
longer even ventures to ask for them for fear of destro’ 
ing one’s chances of Platonic love. And it is then a bitt 
anguish to leave the world without having ever know 
what were the embraces of the woman one has most pa 
sionately loved. As for Rachel’s favours, however, Sain 
Loup had by mere accident succeeded in winning the! 
all. Certainly if he had now learned that they had bee) 
214 


i 


——-- —~— - 


para em 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


iffered to all the world for a louis, he would have suffered, 
wf course, acutely, but would still have given a million 
rancs for the right to keep them, for nothing that he 
night have learned could have made him emerge—since 
hat is beyond human control and can be brought to pass 
aly in spite of it by the action of some great natural law 
-from the path he was treading, from which that face 
ould appear to him only through the web of the dreams 
hat he had already spun. The immobility of that thin 
em like that of a sheet of paper subjected to the colossal 
iressure of two atmospheres, seemed to me to be being 
qaintained by two infinities which abutted on her without 
feeting, for she held them apart. And indeed, when 
Nobert and I were both looking at her we did not both 
‘ee her from the same side of the mystery. 

} It was not “ Rachel when from the Lord ”—who seemed 
2 me a small matter—it was the power of the human 
magination, the illusion on which were based the pains of 
we; these I felt to be vast. Robert noticed that I appeared 
aoved. I turned my eyes to the pear and cherry trees 
f the garden opposite, so that he might think that it was 
neir beauty that had touched me. And it did touch me 
1 somewhat the same way; it also brought close to me 
aings of the kind which we not only see with our eyes 
ut feel also in our hearts. These trees that I had seen in 
ae garden, likening them in my mind to strange deities, 
‘ad not my mistake been like the Magdalene’s when, in 
Mother garden, she saw a human form and “thought it 
yas the gardener”. Treasurers of our memories of the 
ge of gold, keepers of the promise that reality is not what 
/e suppose, that the splendour of poetry, the wonderful 
adiance of innocence may shine in it and may be the 
215 


I 
| 
REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST | 


recompense which we strive to earn, these great whit) 
creatures, bowed in a marvellous fashion above the shad 
propitious for rest, for angling or for reading, were ther 
not rather angels? I exchanged a few words with Saint 
Loup’s mistress. We cut across the village. Its house) 
were sordid. But by each of the most wretched, of thos, 
that looked as though they had been scorched and brandei 
by a rain of brimstone, a mysterious traveller, halting fo. 
a day in the accursed city, a resplendent angel stood ereci 
extending broadly over it the dazzling protection of th 
wings of flowering innocence: it was a pear tree, Saint 
Loup drew me a little way in front to explain: | 

“T should have liked if you and I could have bee 
alone together, in fact I would much rather have ha 
luncheon just with et and stayed with you until it wa 
time to go to my aunt’s. But this poor girl of mine her 
it is such a pleasure to her, and she is so decent to mc 
don’t you know, I hadn’t the heart to refuse her. You’) 
like her, however, she’s literary, you know, a most ser 
sitive nature, and besides it’s such a pleasure to be wit 
her in a restaurant, she is so charming, so simple, alway, 
delighted with everything.” 

I fancy nevertheless that, on this same morning, an 
then probably for the first and last time, Robert di 
detach himself for a moment from the woman whom ov 
of successive layers of affection he had gradually create 
and beheld suddenly at some distance from himself ai 9 
other Rachel, outwardly the double of his but entirel 
different, who was nothing more or less than a little lig § 
of love. We had left the blossoming orchard and wei 
making for the train which was to take us to Paris whe | 
at the station, Rachel, who was walking by herself, wi 

216 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


‘ecognised and accosted by a pair of common little 
tarts” like herself, who first of all, thinking that she 
vas alone, called out: “ Hello, Rachel, you come with us; 
jucienne and Germaine are in the train, and there’s room 
‘or one more. Come on. We’re all going to the rink,” 
‘nd were just going to introduce to her two counter- 
ampers, their lovers, who were escorting them, when, 
oticing that she seemed a little uneasy, they looked up 
nd beyond her, caught sight of us, and with apolo- 
ies bade her a good-bye to which she responded in 
somewhat embarrassed, but still friendly tone. They 
rere two poor little “tarts” with collars of sham otter 
‘kin, looking more or less as Rachel must have looked 
vhen Saint-Loup first met her. He did not know them, or 
Qeir names even, and seeing that they appeared to be 
xtremely intimate with his mistress he could not help 
yondering whether she too might not once have had, had 
‘ot still perhaps her place in a life of which he had never 
teamed, utterly different from the life she led with him, 
‘life in which one had women for a louis apiece, eres 
' Was giving more than a hundred thousand francs a 
ear to Rachel. He caught only a fleeting glimpse of that 
es but saw also in the thick of it a Rachel other than 
Mt 


er whom he knew, a Rachel like the two little “ tarts ” 

the train, a twenty-franc Rachel. In short, Rachel had 
wr the moment duplicated herself in his eyes, he had 
en, at some distance from his own Rachel, the little 

tart” Rachel, the real Rachel, assuming that Rachel 
pie “tart” was more real than the other. It may then 
ave occurred to Robert that from the hell in which he 
‘as living, with the prospect of a rich marriage, of the sale 
‘his name, to enable him to go on giving Rachel a hun- 

217 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST | 


dred thousand francs every year, he might easily perhap 
have escaped, and have enjoyed the favours of his mistres; 
as the two counter-jumpers enjoyed those of their girl 
for next to nothing. But how was it to be done? She hal 
done nothing to forfeit his regard. Less generously re 
warded she would be less kind to him, would stop sayin) 
and writing the things that so deeply moved him, thing 
which he would quote, with a touch of ostentation, to hi 
friends, taking care to point out how nice it was of h 
to say them, but omitting to mention that he was mair 
taining her in the most lavish fashion, or even that he eve 
gave her anything at all, that these inscriptions on phote 
graphs, or greetings at the end of telegrams were but th 
conversion into the most exiguous, the most precious ; 
currencies of a hundred thousand francs. If he took car 
not to admit that these rare kindnesses on Rachel’s pai 
were handsomely paid for by himself, it would be wron 
to say—and yet, by a crude piece of reasoning, we do sa 
it, absurdly, of every lover who pays in cash for hi 
pleasure, and of a great many husbands—that this we 
from self-esteem or vanity. Saint-Loup had enough sens 
to perceive that all the pleasures which appeal to vee 
he could have found easily and without cost to himse 
in society, on the strength of his historic name and hane 
some face, and that his connexion with Rachel had rathe 
if anything, tended to ostracise him, led to his being le: 
sought after. No; this self-esteem which seeks to apper, 
to be receiving gratuitously the outward signs of the affe 
tion of her whom one loves is simply a consequence j 
love, the need to figure in one’s own eyes and in oth¢ 
people’s as loved in return by the person whom one lov 
so well. Rachel rejoined us, leaving the two “tarts” t 
218 


~ 


| THE GUERMANTES WAY 


et into their compartment; but, no less than their sham 
ster skins and the self-conscious appearance of their 
oung men, the names Lucienne and Germaine kept the 
aw Rachel alive for a moment longer. For a moment 
.obert imagined a Place Pigalle existence with unknown 
ssociates, sordid love affairs, afternoons spent in simple 
musements, excursions or pleasure-parties, in that Paris 
1 which the sunny brightness of the streets from the 
oulevard de Clichy onwards did not seem the same as 
a solar radiance in which he himself strolled with his 
listress, but must be something different, for love, and 
affering which is one with love have, like intoxication, the 
ower to alter for us inanimate things. It was almost an 
nknown Paris in the heart of Paris itself that he sus- 
ected, his connexion appeared to him like the explora- 
on of a strange form of life, for if when with him Rachel 
as somewhat similar to himself, it was nevertheless a 
art of her real life that she lived with him, indeed the 
iost precious part, in view of his reckless expenditure on 
sr, the part that made her so greatly envied by her friends 
nd would enable her one day to retire to the country or 
) establish herself in the leading theatres, when she had 
uade her pile. Robert longed to ask her who Lucienne 
nd Germaine were, what they would have said to her if 
1¢ had joined them in their compartment, how they would 
il have spent a day which would have perhaps ended, as a 
apreme diversion, after the pleasures of the rink, at the 
Mympia Tavern, if Robert and I had not been there. For 
moment the purlieus of the Olympia, which until then 
ad seemed to him merely deadly dull, aroused curiosity in 
im and pain, and the sunshine of this spring day beating 
pon the Rue Caumartin where, possibly, if she had not 
219 


=—— 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST | 


known Robert, Rachel might have gone in the course o 
the evening and have earned a louis, filled him with ¢ 
vague longing. But what use was it to ply Rachel wit! 
questions when he already knew that her answer woul 
be merely silence, or a lie, or something extremely painfu 
for him to hear, which would yet explain nothing, Thi 
porters were shutting the doors; we jumped into a first, 
class carriage; Rachel’s magnificent pearls reminded 
Robert that she was a woman of great price, he caressec 
her, restored her to her place in his heart where he coulc 
contemplate her, internalised, as he had always doni 
hitherto—save during this brief instant in which he hac 
seen her in the Place Pigalle of an impressionist painter— 
and the train began to move. 
It was, by the way, quite true that she was “ literary”. 
She never stopped talking to me about books, new art anc 
Tolstoyism except to rebuke Saint-Loup for drinking s¢ 
much wine: 
“Ah! If you could live with me for a year, we’ld see 

| 


fine change. I should keep you on water and you'ld be 
ever so much better.” | 
“Right you are. Let’s begin now.” ‘ 
“But you know quite well I have to work all day! 


For she took her art very seriously. “ Besides, what would 
your people say?” j 
And she began to abuse his family to me in terms whicl 
for that matter seemed to me highly reasonable, and wit! 
which Saint-Loup, while disobeying her orders in the mat. 
ter of champagne, entirely concurred. I, who was so muct 
afraid of the effect of wine on him, and felt the good 
influence of his mistress, was quite prepared to advise him 
to let his family go hang. Tears sprang to the young 
220 


| THE GUERMANTES WAY 


oman’s eyes; I had been rash enough to refer to 
reyfus. 

‘“The poor martyr!” she almost sobbed; “it will be 
ie death of him in that dreadful place.” 

“Don’t upset yourself, Zézette, he will come back, he 
ill be acquitted all right, they will admit they’ve made a 
listake.” 

/“But long before then he’ll be dead! Oh, well at any 
ste his children will bear a stainless name. But just think 
‘the agony he must be going through; that’s what makes 
y heart bleed. And would you believe that Robert’s 
other, a pious woman, says that he Caebs to be left on 
1e Devil’s Isle, even if he is innocent; isn’t it appalling? ” 
“Yes, it’s absolutely true, she shee say that,” Robert 
sured me. “She’s my mother, I’ve no fault to find with 
or, but it’s site clear she hasn’t got a sensitive nature, 
xe Zezette.” 

As a matter of fact these luncheons which were said 
be “such a pleasure” always ended in trouble. For as 
yon as Saint-Loup found himself in a public place with 
‘8 mistress, he would imagine that she was looking at 
very other man in the room, and his brow would darken; 
se would remark his ill-humour, which she may have 
ought it amusing to encourage, or, as was more probable, 
7 a foolish piece of conceit preferred, feeling wounded by 
\s tone, not to appear to be seeking to disarm; and would 
ake a show of being unable to take her eyes off some 
an or other, not that this was always a mere pretence. 
1 fact, the gentleman who, in theatre or café, happened 
| Sit next to them, or, to go no farther, the driver of the 
\b they had engaged need only have something attractive 
yout him, no matter what, and Robert, his perception 
221 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


quickened by jealousy, would have noticed it before I 
mistress; he would see in him immediately one of tha 
foul creatures whom he had denounced to me at Balby 
who corrupted and dishonoured women for their oy 
amusement, would beg his mistress to take her eyes ( 
the man, thereby drawing her attention to him. And som. 
times she found that Robert had shewn such good jud. 
ment in his suspicion that after a little she even left ¢ 
teasing him in order that he might calm down and co. 
sent to go off by himself on some errand which wou 
give her time to begin conversation with the stranger, oft} 
to make an assignation, sometimes even to bring me 
ters quickly to a head. I could see as soon as we e 
tered the restaurant that Robert was looking trouble| 
The fact of the matter was that he had at once remarke 
what had escaped our notice at Balbec, namely that, stan: 
ing among his coarser colleagues, Aimé, with a mode 
brilliance, emitted, quite unconsciously of course, th 
air of romance which emanates until a certain period | 
life from fine hair and a grecian nose, features thanks 
which he was distinguishable among the crowd of waite: 
The others, almost all of them well on in years, present 
a series of types, extraordinarily ugly and criminal, 
hypocritical priests, sanctimonious confessors, more n! 
merously of comic actors of the old school, whose suga 
loaf foreheads are scarcely to be seen nowadays outsi 
the collections of portraits that hang in the humbly hi 
toric green-rooms of little, out of date theatres, where thi 
are represented in the parts of servants or high priesi 
though this restaurant seemed, thanks to a select’ 
method of recruiting and perhaps to some system | 
hereditary nomination, to have preserved their solen. 

222 


L 


| 


| THE GUERMANTES WAY 

‘pe in a sort of College of Augurs. As ill luck would 
Ave it, Aimé having recognised us, it was he who came 
{ take our order, while the procession of operatic high 
jiests swept past us to other tables. Aimé inquired after 
iy grandmother’s health; I asked for news of his wife 
id children. He gave it with emotion, being a family 
an. He had an intelligent, vigorous, but respectful air. 
obert’s mistress began to gaze at him with a strange 
tentiveness. But Aimé’s sunken eyes, in which a slight 
sort-sightedness gave one the impression of veiled depths, 
cewed no sign of consciousness in his still face. In the 
| i. hotel in which he had served for many years 
fore coming to Balbec, the charming sketch, now a 
tfle discoloured and faded, which was his face, and which, 
f: all those years, like some engraved portrait of Prince 
ligene, had been visible always at the same place, at 
tz far end of a dining-room that was almost always 
apty, could not have attracted any very curious gaze. 
I; had thus for long remained, doubtless for want of 
smpathetic admirers, in ignorance of the artistic value 
chis face, and but little inclined for that matter to draw 
#ention to it, for he was temperamentally cold. At the 
Ist, some passing Parisian, stopping for some reason in 
tz town, had raised her eyes to his, had asked him per- 
ips to bring something to her in her room before she 
It for the station, and in the pellucid, monotonous, deep 
vid of this existence of a faithful husband and servant 
a country town had hidden the secret of a caprice with- 
t sequel which no one would ever bring to light. And 
: Aimé must have been conscious of the insistent em- 
asis with which the eyes of the young actress were 
‘tened upon him now. Anyhow, it did not escape Robert, 

| 223 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST | 


beneath whose skin I saw gathering a flush, not vivid lik 
that which burned his cheeks when he felt any “- 
emotion, but faint, diffused. 

“Anything specially interesting about that wal 
Zézette?” he inquired, after sharply dismissing Aim) 
“One would think you were studying the part.” i 

“There you are, beginning again; I knew it a 
coming.” | 

“ Beginning what again, my dear girl? I may have be 
mistaken; I haven’t said anything, I’m sure. But I hay 
at least the right to warn you against the fellow, seeir 
that I knew him at Balbec (otherwise I shouldn’t give) 
damn), and a bigger scoundrel doesn’t walk the face | 
the earth.” | 

She seemed anxious to pacify Robert and began } 
engage me in a literary conversation in which he joined.| 
found that it did not bore me to talk to her, for she hi 
a thorough knowledge of the books that I most admire 
and her opinion of them agreed more or less with my ow} 
but as I had heard Mme. de Villeparisis declare that s} 
had no talent, I attached but little importance to this e' 
dence of culture. She discoursed wittily on all manner f 
topics, and would have been genuinely entertaining hi 
she not affected to an irritating extent the jargon of t? 
sets and studios. She applied this, moreover, to everythi} 
under the sun; for instance, having acquired the habit f 
saying of a picture, if it were impressionist, or an ope, 
if Wagnerian, “Ah! That is good!” one day when4 
young man had kissed her on the ear, and, touched by ! 
pretence of being thrilled, had affected modesty, she sa 
“Yes, as a sensation I call it distinctly good.” But wlt 
most surprised me was that the expressions peculiar ¢ 

224 


a i 


| 


| THE GUERMANTES WAY 


pbert (which, moreover, had come to him, perhaps, from 
jzrary men whom she knew) were used by her to him 
ad by him to her as though they had been a necessary 
»m of speech, and without any conception of the point- 
ysness of an originality that is universal. 

In eating, she managed her hands so clumsily that one 
giumed that she must appear extremely awkward upon 
: stage. She recovered her dexterity only when making 
ve, with that touching prescience latent in women who 
ve the male body so intensely that they immediately 
ess what will give most pleasure to that body, which is 
- so different from their own. 

[ceased to take part in the conversation when it turned 
‘on the theatre, for on that topic Rachel was too ma- 
jous for my liking. She did, it was true, take up in a 
le of commiseration—against Saint-Loup, which proved 
it he was accustomed to hearing Rachel attack her—the 
‘ence of Berma, saying: “Oh, no, she’s a wonderful 
“son, really. Of course, the things she does no longer 
aoeal to us, they don’t correspond quite to what we are 
king for, but one must think of her at the period to 
ich she belongs; we owe her a great deal. She has done 
Md work, you know. And besides she’s such a fine 
man, she has such a good heart; naturally she doesn’t 
e about the things that interest us, but she has had in 
hy time, with a rather impressive face, a charming quality 
mind.” (Our fingers, by the way, do not play the same 
‘ompaniment to all our aesthetic judgments. If it is a 
ture that is under discussion, to shew that it is a fine 
tk with plenty of paint, it is enough to stick out one’s 
mb. But the “charming quality of mind” is more 
tcting. It requires two fingers, or rather two finger- 
225 re) 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


nails, as though one were trying to flick off a particlef 
dust.) But, with this single exception, Saint-Loup’s Tn 
tress referred to the best-known actresses in a tone 
ironical superiority which annoyed me because I belieyd 
—dquite mistakenly, as it happened—that it was she we 
was inferior to them. She was clearly aware that I mt 
regard her as an indifferent actress, and on the other had 
have a great regard for those she despised. But ce 
shewed no resentment, because there is in all great talat 
while it is still, as hers was then, unrecognised, howe'r 
sure it may be of itself, a vein of humility, and because ¢ 
make the consideration that we expect from others pi 
portionate not to our latent powers but to the position 
which we have attained. (I was, an hour or so later, 
the theatre, to see Saint-Loup’s mistress shew great def 
ence towards those very artists against whom she ys 
now bringing so harsh a judgment to bear.) And so,n 
however little doubt my silence may have left her, ie 
insisted nevertheless on our dining together that eveniy 
assuring me that.never had anyone’s conversation » 
lighted her so much as mine. If we were not yet in 
theatre, to which we were to go after luncheon, we had 
sense of being in a green-room hung with portraits of d 
members of the company, so markedly were the waité 
faces those which, one thought, had perished with a whe 
peneration of obscure actors of the Palais-Royal; tly 
had a look, also, of Academicians; stopping before a s 
table one of them was examining a dish of pears wh 
the expression of detached curiosity that M. de Jussi 
might have worn. Others, on either side of him, wi 
casting about the room that gaze instinct with curios} 
and coldness which Members of the Institute, who i 

226 


— 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


bg early, throw at the public, while they exchange a 
. murmured words which one fails to catch. They were 
ges well known to all the regular guests. One of them, 
wever, was being pointed out, a newcomer with dis- 
ded nostrils and a smug upper lip, who looked like a 
es he was entering upon his duties there for the 
t time, and everyone gazed with interest at this newly 
ected candidate. But presently, perhaps to drive Robert 


ay so that she might be alone with Aimé, Rachel began 
«make eyes at a young student, who was feeding with 
pther man at a neighbouring table. 

‘ Zezette, let me beg you not to look at that young man 
je that,” said Saint-Loup, on whose face the hesitating 
sh of a moment ago had been gathered now into a 
irlet tide which dilated and darkened his swollen fea- 
28, “if you must make a scene here, I shall simply finish 
ung by myself and join you at the theatre afterwards.” 
At this point a messenger came up to tell Aimé that 
was wanted to speak to a gentleman in a carriage 
side. Saint-Loup, ever uneasy, and afraid now that it 
tht be some message of an amorous nature that was to 
‘conveyed to his mistress, looked out of the window 
1 saw there, sitting up in his brougham, his hands 
tly buttoned in white gloves with black seams, a 
wer in his buttonhole, M. de Charlus. 

There; you see!” he said to me in a low voice, “ my 
lily hunt me down even here. Will you, please—I can’t 
y well do it myself, but you can, as you know the 
'd waiter so well and he’s certain to give us away— 
him not to go to the carriage. He can always send 
1e other waiter who doesn’t know me. I know my 
le; if they tell him that I’m not known here, he’ll 

227 


- 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


never come inside to look for me, he loathes this s) 
of place. Really, it’s pretty disgusting that an old pe} 
coat-chaser like him, who is still at it, too, should § 
perpetually lecturing me and coming to spy on me!” | 

Aimé on receiving my instructions sent one of his 4 
derlings to explain that he was busy and could not co 
out at the moment, and (should the gentleman ask 
the Marquis de Saint-Loup) that they did not know a 
such person. But Saint-Loup’s mistress, who had fai 
to catch our whispered conversation and thought ti 
it was still about the young man at whom Robert kt 
been finding fault with her for making eyes, broke 
in a torrent of rage. 

“Oh, indeed! So it’s the young man over there, ni 
is it? Thank you for telling me; it’s a real pleasure} 
have this sort of thing with one’s meals! Don’t listen! 
him, please; he’s rather cross to-day, and, you knoy 
She went on, turning to me, “he just says it because} 
thinks it smart, that it’s the gentlemanly thing to app 
jealous always.” | 

And she began with feet and fingers to shew signs) 
nervous irritation. 

“But, Zezette, it is I who find it unpleasant. You } 
making us all ridiculous before that gentleman, who } 
begin to imagine you’re making overtures to him, ¢ 
an impossible bounder he looks, too.” 

“Oh, no, I think he’s charming; for one thing, f 
got the most adorable eyes, and a way of looking 
women—you can feel he must love them.” 

“You can at least keep quiet until I’ve left the roc 
if you have lost your senses,” cried Robert. “ Waiter, | 
things.” 


228 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


did not know whether I was expected to follow him. 
‘No, I want to be alone,” he told me in the same tone 
which he had just been addressing his mistress, and 
if he were quite furious with me. His anger was like 
ingle musical phrase to which in an opera several lines 
. sung which are entirely different from one another, 
me studies the words, in meaning and character, but 
ich the music assimilates by a common sentiment. 
wen Robert had gone, his mistress called Aimé and 
ed him various questions. She then wanted to know 
at I thought of him. 

An amusing expression, hasn’t he? Do you know 
at I should like; it would be to know what he really 
iks about things, to have him wait on me often, to 
e him travelling. But that would be all. If we were 
ected to love all the people who attract us, life would 
jpretty ghastly, wouldn’t it? It’s silly of Robert to 
ideas like that. All that sort of thing, it’s only just 
at comes into my head, that’s all; Robert has nothing 
vorry about.” She was still gazing at Aimé. “ Do look, 
at dark eyes he has. I should love to know what there 
yehind them.” 

‘resently came a message that Robert was waiting for 
in a private room, to which he had gone to finish 
luncheon, by another door, without having to pass 
ough the restaurant again. I thus found myself alone, 
il I too was summoned by Robert. I found his mis- 
's stretched out on a sofa laughing under the kisses 
. caresses that he was showering on her. They were 
aking champagne. “Hallo, you!” she cried to him, 
ing recently picked up this formula which seemed to 
the last word in playfulness and wit. I had fed badly, 


229 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


| 

| 

I was extremely uncomfortable, and: albeit Legrand) 
words had had no effect on me I was sorry to think tj 
I was beginning in a back room of a restaurant and te 
be finishing in the wings of a theatre this first afternoon) 
spring. Looking first at the time to see that she was 
making herself late, she offered me a glass of champag 
handed me one of her Turkish cigarettes and unpini 
a rose for me from her bodice. Whereupon I said to } 
self: “I have nothing much to regret, after all; th 
hours spent in this young woman’s company are 
wasted, since I have had from her, charming gifts wt! 
could not be bought too dear, a rose, a scented cigaré 
and a glass of champagne.” I told myself this beca\ 
I felt that it endowed with an aesthetic character ¢ 
thereby justified, saved these hours of boredom. I ouj 
perhaps to have reflected that the very need which I 
of a reason that would console me for my boredom 
sufficient to prove that I was experiencing no aesthi 
sensation. As for Robert and his mistress, they appeal 
to have no recollection of the quarrel which had b 
raging between them a few minutes earlier, or of | 
having been a witness of it. They made no allusion\ 
it, sought no excuse for it any more than for the conti} 
with it which their present conduct formed. By dint) 
drinking champagne with them, I began to feel a li 
of the intoxication that used to come over me at Ri 
belle, though probably not quite the same. Not o! 
every kind of intoxication, from that which the sun} 
travelling gives us to that which we get from exhaust! 
or wine, but every degree of intoxication—and each mi 
have a different figure, like the numbers of fathoms o| 
chart—lays bare in us exactly at the depth to whicli 
230 


——- 


| 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


| 

ties a different kind of man. The room which Saint- 
pup had taken was small, but the mirror which was its 
le ornament was of such a kind that it seemed to reflect 
jirty others in an endless vista; and the electric bulb 
jaced at the top of the frame must at night, when the 
cht was on, followed by the procession ar thirty flashes 
milar to its own, give to the drinker, even when alone, 
fe idea that the surrounding space was multiplying itself 
multaneously with his sensations heightened by intoxica- 
pn, and that, shut up by himself in this little cell, he 
as reigning nevertheless over something far more ex- 
fasive in its indefinite luminous curve than a passage in 
te Jardin de Paris. Being then myself at this moment 
ie said drinker, suddenly, looking for him in the glass, 
caught sight of him, hideous, a stranger, who was 
ing at me. The j joy at intoxication was stronger than 
y disgust; from gaiety or bravado I smiled at him, and 
multaneously he smiled back at me. And I felt myself 
» much under the ephemeral and potent sway of the 
‘mute in which our sensations are so strong, that I am 
t sure whether my sole regret was not at the thought 
at this hideous self of whom I had just caught sight in 
2 glass was perhaps there for the last time on earth, 
'd that I should never meet the stranger again in the 
nole course of my life. 

Robert was annoyed only because I was not being more 
illiant before his mistress. 

“What about that fellow you met this morning, who 
mbines snobbery with astronomy; tell her about him, 
e forgotten the story,” and he watched her furtively. 
“But, my dear boy, there’s nothing more than what 
‘u've just said,” 


231 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


“What a bore you are. Then tell her about Frango): 
in the Champs-Elysées. She’ll enjoy that.” | 
“Oh, do! Bobby is always talking about Francoise 
And taking Saint-Loup by the chin, she repeated, for wal 
of anything more original, drawing the said chin near 
to the light: “ Hallo, you! ” | 
Since actors had ceased to be for me exclusively t} 
depositaries, in their diction and playing, of an artis 
truth, they had begun to interest me in themselves; | 
amused myself, pretending that what I saw before rf: 
were the characters in some old humorous novel, i 
watching, struck by the fresh face of the young mi 
who had just come into the stalls, the heroine list} 
distractedly to the declaration of love which the juven} 
lead in the piece was addressing to her, while he, throu} 
the fiery torrent of his impassioned speech, still kept) 
burning gaze fixed on an old lady seated in a stage be 
whose magnificent pearls had caught his eye; and thi, 
thanks especially to the information that Saint-Loup ga} 
me as to the private lives of the players, I saw anothi 
drama, mute but expressive, enacted beneath the words} 
the spoken drama which in itself, although of no met, 
interested me also; for I could feel in it that there we: 
budding and opening for an hour in the glare of t! 
footlights, created out of the agglutination on the fa! 
of an actor of another face of grease paint and pasteboat, 
on his own human soul the words of a part. Li 
These ephemeral vivid personalities which the che 
acters are in a play that is entertaining also, whom oO} 
loves, admires, pities, whom one would like to see agal 
after one has left the theatre, but who by that time a} 
already disintegrated into a comedian who is no long’ 
232 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


the position which he occupied in the play, a text 
iich no longer shews one the comedian’s face, a coloured 
wder which a handkerchief wipes off, who have re- 
ned in short to elements that contain nothing of them, 
ice their dissolution, effected so soon after the end of 
2 show, make us—like the dissolution of a dear friend— 
gin to doubt the reality of our ego and meditate on 
2 mystery of death. 

‘One number in the programme I found extremely try- 
x A young woman whom Rachel and some of her 
a disliked was, with a set of old songs, to make 
first appearance on which she had based all her hopes 
t the future of herself and her family. This young 
»man was blessed with unduly, almost grotesquely pro- 
ment hips and a pretty but too slight voice, weakened 
it farther by her excitement and in marked contrast 
‘her muscular development. Rachel had posted among 
2 audience a certain number of friends, male and female, 
lose business it was by their sarcastic comments to put 
2 novice, who was known to be timid, out of counten- 
ce, to make her lose her head so that her turn should 
Ove a complete failure, after which the manager would 
fuse to give her a contract. At the first notes uttered 
» the wretched woman, several of the male audience, 
sruited for that purpose, began pointing to her backward 
ofile with jocular comments, several of the women, 
0 in the plot, laughed out loud, each flute-like note 
mm the stage increased the deliberate hilarity, which 
2w to a public scandal. The unhappy woman, sweat- 
3 with anguish through her grease-paint, tried for a 
tle longer to hold out, then stopped and looked round 
2 audience with an appealing gaze of misery and anger 


233 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


which succeeded only in increasing the uproar. The i, 
stinct to imitate others, the desire to shew their oi 
wit and daring added to the party several pretty actress) 
who had not been forewarned but now threw at the othe 
glances charged with malicious connivance, and sat co! 
vulsed with laughter which rang out in such violent pee. 
that at the end of the second song, although there i 
still five more on the programme, the stage manag 
rang down the curtain. I tried to make myself pay 1 
more heed to the incident than I had paid to n 
grandmother’s sufferings when my great-aunt, to tea 
her, used to give my grandfather brandy, the idea | 
deliberate wickedness being too painful for me to bez 
And yet, just as our pity for misfortune is perhaps n 
very exact since in our imagination we recreate a whe 
world of grief by which the unfortunate who has 
struggle against it has no time to think of being movi 
to self-pity, so wickedness has probably not in the mir 
of the wicked man that pure and voluptuous cruelty whir 
it so pains us to imagine. Hatred inspires him, ang) 


gives him an ardour, an activity in which there is 1 
great joy; he must be a sadist to extract any pleasu} 
from it; ordinarily, the wicked man supposes himself ! 
be punishing the wickedness of his victim; Rael 
imagined certainly that the actress whom she was makil 
suffer was far from being of interest to any one, al 
that anyhow, in having her hissed off the stage, she w 
herself avenging an outrage on good taste and teachill 
an unworthy comrade a lesson. Nevertheless, I preferri 
not to speak of this incident since I had had neither tl 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


ctim, to approximate to a gratification of the lust for 
uelty the sentiments which animated the tormentors 
ho had strangled this career in its infancy. 

/But the opening scene of this afternoon’s performance 
terested me in quite another way. It made me realise 
_ part the nature of the illusion of which Saint-Loup 
as a victim with regard to Rachel, and which had set 
| gulf between the images that he and I respectively had 
mind of his mistress, when we beheld her that morn- 
g among the blossoming pear trees. Rachel was playing 
part which involved barely more than her walking on 
the little play. But seen thus, she was another woman. 
ae had one of those faces to which distance—and not 
ocessarily that between stalls and stage, the world being 
_this respect only a larger theatre—gives form and out- 
ae and which, seen close at hand, dissolve back into 
ast. Standing beside her one saw only a nebula, a milky 
ay of freckles, of tiny spots, nothing more. At a proper 
stance, all this ceased to be visible and, from cheeks 
lat withdrew, were reabsorbed into her face, rose like 
‘crescent moon a nose so fine, so pure that one would 
ive liked to be the object of Rachel’s attention, to see 
Be again as often as one chose, to keep her close to one, 
‘ovided that one had not already seen her differently 
id at close range. This was not my case but it had 
sen Saint-Loup’s when he first saw her on the stage. 
hen he had asked himself how he might approach her, 
yw come to know her, there had opened in him a whole 
iry realm—that in which she lived—from which ema- 
wted an exquisite radiance but into which he might not 
metrate. He had left the theatre telling himself that it 
ould be madness to write to her, that she would not 


235 


| 
| 
| 


{ 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST : 


answer his letter, quite prepared to give his fortune and 
his name for the creature who was living in him it 
a world so vastly superior to those too familiar | 
a world made beautiful by desire and dreams of happi 
ness, when at the back of the theatre, a little old buildin: 


which had itself the air of being a piece of scenery, te 


the stage door he saw debouch the gay and daintily hatte 
band of actresses who had just been playing. Young meil 
who knew them were waiting for them outside. The num 
ber of pawns on the human chessboard being less thay 
the number of combinations that they are capable o 
forming, in a theatre from which are absent all the peopl! 
we know and might have expected to find, there turns uy 
cne whom we never imagined that we should see aga 
and who appears so opportunely that the coincidene| 
seems to us providential, although no doubt some othe! 
coincidence would have occurred in its stead had we bee 
not in that place but in some other, where other desire! 
would have been aroused and we should have met som! 
other old acquaintance to help us to satisfy them. Thi 
golden portals of the world of dreams had closed agail 
upon Rachel before Saint-Loup saw her emerge from th 
theatre, so that the freckles and spots were of little im. 
portance. They vexed him nevertheless, especially as 
being no longer alone, he had not now the same oppor: 
tunity to dream as in the theatre. But she, for all tha 
he could no longer see her, continued to dictate his actions| 
like those stars which govern us by their attraction evei/ 
during the hours in which they are not visible to ou’ 
eyes. And so his desire for the actress with the fini 
features which had no place now even in Robert’s memor) 
had the result that, dashing towards the old friend whon 

236 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


vance had brought to the spot, he insisted upon an 
‘troduction to the person with no features and with 
eckles, since she was the same person, telling himself 
vat later on he would take care to find out which of the 
vo this same person really was. She was in a hurry, she 
(d not on this occasion say a single word to Saint-Loup, 
ad it was only some days later that he finally contrived, 
I inducing her to leave her companions, to escort her 
yme. He loved her already. The need for dreams, the | 
sire to be made happy by her of whom oné has ance 
ing it about that not much time is required before 
we entrusts all one’s chances of happiness to her who a 
w days since was but a fortuitous apparition, unknown, 
ameaning, upon the boards of the theatre. 

‘When, the curtain having fallen, we moved on to the 
age, alarmed at finding myself there for the first time, 
,felt the need to begin a spirited conversation with 
nint-Loup. In this way my attitude, as I did not know 
hat one ought to adopt in a setting that was strange 
' me, would be entirely dominated by our talk, and 
Wipe would think that I was so absorbed in it, so un- 
servant of my surroundings, that it was quite natural 
‘at I should not shew the facial expressions proper to 
place in which, to judge by what I appeared to be 
ying, I was barely conscious of standing; and seizing, 
) make a beginning, upon the first topic that came to 
y mind: 

“You know,” I said, “I did come to say good-bye to 
ou the day I left Donciéres; I’ve not had an opportunity 
mention it. I waved to you in the street.” 

“Don’t speak about it,” he replied, “I was so sorry. 
passed you just outside the barracks, but I couldn’t 


237 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


stop because I was late already. I assure you, I felt qui 
wretched about it.” 

So he had recognised me! I saw again in my mir 
the wholly impersonal salute which he had given m 
raising his hand to his cap, without a glance to indica 
that he knew me, without a gesture to shew that he wi 
sorry he could not stop. Evidently this fiction, which ] 
had adopted at that moment, of not knowing me mu 
have simplified matters for him greatly. But I was amazi’ 
to find that he had been able to compose himself to) 
so swiftly and without any instinctive movement to betr? 
his original impression. I had already observed at Balb 
that, side by side with that childlike sincerity of his fac 
the skin of which by its transparence rendered visible t} 
sudden tide of certain emotions, his body had been aj 
mirably trained to perform a certain number of we; 
bred dissimulations, and that, like a consummate actc 
he could, in his regimental and in his social life, ply 
alternately quite different parts. In one of his parts f 
loved me tenderly, he acted towards me almost as | 
he had been my brother; my brother he had been, | 
was now again, but for a moment that day he had bal 
another person who did not know me and who, holding t} 
reins, his glass screwed to his eye, without a look ; 
a smile had lifted his disengaged hand to the peak of I} 
cap to give me correctly the military salute. 

The stage scenery, still in its place, among which I w 
passing, seen thus at close range and without the a 
vantage of any of those effects iat lighting and distan 
on which the eminent artist whose brush had painted 
had calculated, was a depressing sight, and Rachel, whi 
I came near her, was subjected to a no less destructi} 

238 


<—w 


5 — i gg 


| 
| 


| THE GUERMANTES WAY 


‘ce. The curves of her charming nose had stood out 
| perspective, between stalls and stage, like the relief 
‘the scenery. It was no longer herself, I recognised her 
ly thanks to her eyes, in which her identity had taken 
‘uge. The form, the radiance of this young star, so 
illiant a moment ago, had vanished. On the other 
Ind—as though we came close to the moon and. it 
ased to present the appearance of a disk of rosy gold— 
this face, so smooth a surface until now, I could distin- 
ish only protuberances, discolourations, cavities. De- 
‘ite the incoherence into which were resolved at close 
lage not only the feminine features but the painted 
nvas, I was glad to be there to wander among the 
emery, all that setting which at one time my love of 
fture had prompted me to dismiss as tedious and arti- 
ial until the description of it by Goethe in Wilhelm 
leister had given it a sort of beauty in my eyes; and 
had already observed with delight, in the thick of a 
owd of journalists or men of fashion, friends of the 
tresses, who were greeting one another, talking, smok- 
y, as though in a public thoroughfare, a young man 
a black velvet cap and hortensia coloured skirt, his 
eeks chalked in red like a page from a Watteau 
oum, who with his smiling lips, his eyes raised to the 
iling, as he sprang lightly into the air, seemed so 
‘tirely of another species than the rational folk in every 
y clothes, in the midst of whom he was pursuing like 
madman the course of his ecstatic dream, so alien to 
© preoccupations of their life, so anterior to the habits 
their civilisation, so enfranchised from all the laws of 
ture, that it was as restful and as fresh a spectacle as 
atching a butterfly straying along a crowded street to 


239 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


follow with one’s eyes, between the strips of canvas, the 
natural arabesques traced by his winged capricious paintec 
oscillations. But at that moment Saint-Loup conceived o 
idea that his mistress was paying undue attention to thi 
dancer, who was engaged now in practising for the las’ 
time the figure of fun with which he was going to take 
the stage, a his face darkened. : 

‘4 You might look the other way,” he warned he: 
gloomily. es Y ou know that none of those dancer-fellow: 
is worth the rope they can at least fall off and break 
their necks, and they’re the sort of people who go abou 
afterwards boasting that you’ve taken notice of them 
Besides, you know very well you’ve been told to go t 
your Ag RRS and change. You'll be missing you: 
call again.’ 

A group of men—journalists—noticing the look of fae 
on Saint-Loup’s face, came nearer, amused, to listen ti 


what we were saying. And as the stage-hands had jus 
set up some scenery on our other ane we were ‘or 
into close contact with them. 

“Oh, but I know him; he’s a friend of mine,” oi 
Saint-Loup’s mistress, ee eyes still fixed on the dances 
“Took how well made he is, do watch those little han 
of his dancing away by themselves like his whole body!! | 

The dancer turned his head towards her, and his huma) 
person appeared beneath the sylph that he was en 
deavouring to be, the clear grey jelly of his eyes tremiial 
and sparkled between eyelids stiff with paint, and a smi 
extended the corners of his mouth into cheeks plastemy 
with rouge; then, to amuse the girl, like a singer wh 
hums to oblige us the air of the song in which we hay 
told her that we admired her singing, he began to repez 

240 | 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


he movement of his hands, counterfeiting himself with 
he fineness of a parodist and the good humour of a child. 
“Oh, that’s too lovely, the way he copies himself,” 
he cried, clapping her hands. 

“T implore you, my dearest girl,” Saint-Loup broke in, 
1 a tone of utter misery, “do not make a scene here, 
can’t stand it; I swear, if you say another word I 
ont go with you to your room, I shall walk straight 
ut; come, don’t be so naughty... . You oughtn’t to 
land about in the cigar smoke like that, itll make you 
1,” he went on, to me, with the solicitude he had shewn 
or me in our Balbec days. 
~“Oh! What a good thing it would be if you did go.” 
“YT warn you, if I do I shan’t come back.” 
'©That’s more than I should venture to hope.” 
“Listen; you know, I promised you the necklace if 
‘ou behaved nicely to me, but the moment you treat me 
ke ag 
“Ah! Well, that doesn’t surprise me in the least. You 
ave me your promise; I ought to have known scale 
ever keep it. You want the whole world to know you’re 
rade of money, but I’m not a money-grubber like you. 
‘ou can keep your Pikes necklace; I know some one 
Ise who'll give it to me.’ 
. “No one else can possibly give it to you; I’ve told 
toucheron he’s to keep it for We and I have his promise 
ot to let anyone else have it.” 
« There you are, trying to blackmail me, you’ve ar- 
anged everything I see. That’s what they mean by 
farsantes, Mater Semita, it smells of the race,” re- 
orted Rachel, quoting an etymology which was founded 
I: a wild misinterpretation, for Semita means “ path” 
I 241 P 


\ 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


and not “ Semite ”, but one which the Nationalists applie 
to Saint-Loup on account of the Dreyfusard views fy 
which, so far as that went, he was indebted to the actres| 
She was less entitled than anyone to apply the wor 
“Jew” to Mme. de Marsantes, in whom the ethnologis) 
of society could succeed in finding no trace of Judais! 
apart from her connexion with the Lévy-Mirepoix famil 


like that isn’t binding. You have acted treacherously t 
wards me. Boucheron shall be told of it and he’ll be pa} 
twice as much for his necklace. You’ll hear from me b) 
fore long; don’t you worry.” 

Robert was in the right a hundred times over. B 
circumstances are always so entangled that the man wi 
is in the right a hundred times may have been once | 
the wrong. And I could not help recalling that i 
pleasant and yet quite innocent expression which he hé 
used at Balbec: “In that way I keep a hold over her 

* You don’t understand what I mean about the nec’ 
lace. I made no formal promise: once you start doi 
everything you possibly can to make me leave you, 7 
only natural, surely, that I shouldn’t give it to you; I fi 
to understand what treachery you can see in that, or wh 
my ulterior motive is supposed to be. You can’t serious) 
maintain that I brag about my money, I’m always tellix, 
you that I’m only a poor devil without a cent to my nam, 
It’s foolish of you to take it in that way, my dear. Wh 
possible interest can I have in hurting you? You kno 
very well that my one interest fe life is yourself.” 

“Oh, yes, yes, please go on,” she retorted ironicall 
with the sweeping gesture of a barber wielding his rag 
And turning to watch the dancer: 

242 


— 


a 


| 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


“Tsn’t he too wonderful with his hands. A woman like 
e couldn’t do the things he’s doing now.” She went 
oser to him and, pointing to Robert’s furious face: 
Look, he’s hurt,” she murmured, in the momentary 
ation of a sadic impulse to cruelty totally out of keeping 
ith her genuine feelings of affection for Saint-Loup. 
“Listen, for the last time, I swear to you it doesn’t 
Bc: what you do—in a week you'll be giving any- 
ung to get me back—I shan’t come; it’s a clean cut, 
9 you hear, it’s irrevocable; you will be sorry one day, 
hen it’s too late.” 

Perhaps he was sincere in saying this, and the torture 
‘leaving his mistress may have seemed to him less cruel 
aan that of remaining with her in certain circumstances. 
‘“ But, my dear boy,” he went on, to me, “ you oughtn’t 
» stand about here, I tell you, it will make you cough.” 
I pointed to the scenery which barred my way. He 
vuched his hat and said to one of the journalists: 
‘*Would you mind, sir, throwing away your cigar; the 
moke is bad for my friend.” 

-His mistress had not waited for him to accompany 
er; on her way to her dressing-room she turned round 
ad: 

“Do they do those tricks with women too, those nice 
ttle hands?” she flung to the dancer from the back of 
le stage, in an artificially melodious tone of girlish inno- 
ence. “ You look just like one yourself, I’m sure I could 
ave a wonderful time with you and a girl I know.” 
“There’s no rule against smoking that I know of; if 
eople aren’t well, they have only to stay at home,” said 
le journalist. 

|The dancer smiled mysteriously back at the actress. 


243 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


“Oh! Do stop! You'll make me quite mad,” she cri 
to him. “ Then there will be trouble.” | 

“Tn any case, sir, you are not very civil,” observe 
Saint-Loup to the journalist, still with a courteous suavit 
in the deliberate manner of a man judging retrospective 
the rights and wrongs of an incident that is already close) 

At that moment I saw Saint-Loup raise his arm ve 
tically above his head as if he had been making a sign 
to some one whom I could not see, or like the conduct 
of an orchestra, and indeed—without any greater tran: 
tion than when, at a simple wave of the baton, in a syt 
phony or a ballet, violent rhythms succeed a gracef 
andante—after the courteous words that he had jy 
uttered he brought down his hand with a resoundi 
smack upon the journalist’s cheek. | 

Now that to the measured conversations of the dip 
mats, to the smiling arts of peace had succeeded t 
furious onthrust of war, since blows lead to blows, 
should not have been surprised to see the combatar 
swimming in one another’s blood. But what I could nj 
understand (like people who feel that it is not accordi} 
to the rules when a war breaks out between two countri 
after some question merely of the rectification of 
frontier, or when a sick man dies after nothing mo! 
serious than a swelling of the liver) was how Saint-Lo 
had contrived to follow up those words, which implied 
distinct shade of friendliness, with an action which in: 
way arose out of them, which they had not, so to spez, 
announced, that action of an arm raised in defiance ni 
only of the rights of man but of the law of cause ai 
effect, that action created ex nihilo. Fortunately the jou 
nalist who, staggering back from the violence of the blo; 


244 | 


=" 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


ad turned pale and hesitated for a moment, did not 
taliate. As for his friends, one of them had promptly 
timed away his head and was looking fixedly into the 
ings for some one who evidently was not there; the 
‘cond pretended that a speck of dust had got into his 
re, and began rubbing and squeezing his eyelid with 
very sign of being in pain; while the third had rushed 
7, exclaiming: “Good heavens, I believe the curtain’s 
ving up; we shan’t get into our seats.” 
I wanted to speak to Saint-Loup, but he was so full 
* his indignation with the dancer that it adhered exactly 
» the surface of his eyeballs; like a subcutaneous struc- 
ire it distended his cheeks with the result that, his 
‘ternal agitation expressing itself externally in an entire 
pe obility, he had not even the power of relaxation, the 
play ” necessary to take in a word from me and to 
aswer it. The journalist’s friends, seeing that the in- 
dent was at an end, gathered round him again, still 
embling. But, ashamed of having deserted him, they 
_ absolutely determined that he should be made to 
Ippose that they had noticed nothing. And so they 
lated, one upon the speck of dust in his eye, one upon 
s false alarm when he had thought that the curtain 
as going up, the third upon the astonishing resemblance 
2tween a man who had just gone by and the speaker’s 
other. Indeed they seemed quite to resent their friend’s 
ot having shared their several emotions. 
‘e What, didn’t it strike you? You must be going blind.” 
“What I say is that you’re a pack of curs,” growled 
le journalist whom Saint-Loup had punished. 
Forgetting the poses they had adopted, to be consistent 
ith which they ought—but they did not think of it—to 


245 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


have pretended not to understand what he meant, the 
fell back on certain expressions traditional in the ci 
cumstances: “ What’s all the excitement? Keep your h 
on, old chap. Don’t take the bit in your teeth.” | 
I had realised that morning beneath the pear blosso 
how illusory were the grounds upon which Robert’s lor 
for “ Rachel when from the Lord” was based; I wi 
bound now to admit how very real were the sufferin) 
to which that love gave rise. Gradually the feeling th 
had obsessed him for the last hour, without a brea 
began to diminish, receded into him, an unoccupied pliab, 
zone appeared in his eyes. I had stopped for a mome; 
at a corner of the Avenue Gabriel from which I hy 
often in the past seen Gilberte appear. I tried for a fe 
seconds to recall those distant impressions, and was hu 
rying at a “ gymnastic” pace to overtake Saint-Loup whe 
I saw that a gentleman, somewhat shabbily attired, aj 
peared to be talking to him confidentially. I concluded th} 
this was a personal friend of Robert; at the same time the 
seemed to be drawing even closer to one another; suddenl, 
as a meteor flashes through the sky, I saw a number | 
ovoid bodies assume with a giddy swiftness all the pos 
tions necessary for them to form, before Saint-Loup 
face and body, a flickering constellation. Flung out lil 
stones from a catapult, they seemed to me to be at tl 
very least seven in number. They were merely, howeve 
Saint-Loup’s pair of fists, multiplied by the speed wi 
which they were changing their places in this—to ¢ 
appearance ideal and decorative—arrangement. But tk 
elaborate display was nothing more than a pummellit! 
which Saint-Loup was administering, the true character 
which, aggressive rather than aesthetic, was first reveal 
246 | 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


me by the aspect of the shabbily dressed gentleman who 
peared to be losing at once his self-possession, his lower 
/w and a quantity of blood. He gave fictitious explana- 
fos to the people who came up to question him, turned 
s head and, seeing that Saint-Loup had made off and 
‘as hastening to rejoin me, stood gazing after him with 
h offended, crushed, but by no means furious expression 
1 his face. Saint-Loup, on the other hand, was furious, 
though he himself had received no blow, and his eyes 
ere still blazing with anger when he reached me. The 
‘cident was in no way bennected (as I had supposed) 
ith the assault in the theatre. It was an impassioned 
iterer who, seeing the fine looking young soldier that 
aint-Loup was, had made overtures to him. My friend 
ould not get over the audacity of this “clique” who 
‘) longer even waited for the shades of night to cover 
teir operations, and spoke of the suggestion that had 
een made to him with the same indignation as the 
ewspapers use in reporting an armed assault and rob- 
ery, in broad daylight, in the centre of Paris. And yet | 
te recipient of his blow was excusable in one respect, 
wx the trend of the downward slope brings desire so 
widly to the point of enjoyment that beauty by itself 
pears to imply consent. Now, that Saint-Loup was 
‘sautiful was beyond dispute. Castigation such as he had 
ist administered has this value, for men of the type that 
ad accosted him, that it makes them think seriously of 
ieir conduct, though never for long enough to enable 
lem to amend their ways and thus escape correction at 
ae hands of the law. And so, although Saint-Loup’s arm 
ad shot out instinctively, without any preliminary 
| ie all such punishments, even when they reinforce 


| 247 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


the law, are powerless to bring about any uniformity ir 
| morals. 

These incidents, particularly the one that was weighing 
most on his mind, seemed to have prompted in Rober 
a desire to be left alone for a while. After a moment’ 
silence he asked me to leave him, and to go by myseli 
to call on Mme. de Villeparisis. He would join me there 
but preferred that we should not enter the room together 
so that he might appear to have only just arrived ir 
Paris, instead of having spent half the day already with me 

As I had supposed before making the acquaintance 0 
Mme. de Villeparisis at Balbec, there was a vast dif. 
ference between the world in which she lived and thai 
of Mme. de Guermantes. Mme. de Villeparisis was one 0 
those women who, born of a famous house, entering by 
Marriage into another no less famous, do not for all thai 
enjoy any great position in the social world, and, apar 
from a few duchesses who are their nieces or sisters-in- 
law, perhaps even a crowned head or two, old family 
friends, see their drawing-rooms filled only by third rate 
people, drawn from the middle classes or from a nobility 
either provincial or tainted in some way, whose presence 
there has long since driven away all such smart an 
snobbish folk as are not obliged to come to the house 
by ties of blood or the claims of a friendship too old to be 
ignored. Certainly I had no difficulty after the first few 
minutes in understanding how Mme. de Villeparisis, at 
Balbec, had come to be so well informed, better than 
ourselves even, as to the smallest details of the tour 
through Spain which my father was then making with 
M. de Norpois. Even this, however, did not make it 
possible to rest content with the theory that the intimacy 

248 : 


= 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


of more than twenty years’ standing—between Mme. de 
illeparisis and the Ambassador could have been respon- 
ble for the lady’s loss of caste in a world where the 
nartest women boasted the attachment of lovers far 
ss respectable than him, not to mention that it was 
‘obably years since he had been anything more to the 
[arquise than just an old friend. Had Mme. de Ville- 
arisis then had other adventures in days gone by? Being 
1en of a more passionate temperament than now, in a 
im and religious old age which nevertheless owed some 
its mellow colouring to those ardent, vanished years, 
id she somehow failed, in the country neighbourhood 
here she had lived for so long, to avoid certain scandals 
aknown to the younger generation who simply took 
ote of their effect in the unequal and defective composi- 
on of a visiting list bound, otherwise, to have been 
nong the purest of any taint of mediocrity? That “sharp 
mgue” which her nephew ascribed to her, had it in 
ose far-off days made her enemies? Had it driven 
er into taking advantage of certain successes with men 
» as to avenge herself upon women? All this was pos- 
ble; nor could the exquisitely sensitive way in which— 
ving so delicate a shade not merely to her words but 
1 her intonation—Mme. de Villeparisis spoke of modesty 
‘ generosity be held to invalidate this supposition; for 
te people who not only speak with approval of certain 
‘rtues but actually feel their charm and shew a mar- 
sllous comprehension of them (people in fact who will, 
hen they come to write their memoirs, present a worthy 
cture of those virtues) are often sprung from but not 
‘tually part of the silent, simple, artless generation which 
ractised them. That generation is reflected in them but 


249 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


is not continued. Instead of the character which it pos 
sessed we find a sensibility, an intelligence which are ne 
conducive to action. And whether or not there had bee 
in the life of Mme. de Villeparisis any of those scandal 
which (if there had) the lustre of her name would hay 
blotted out, it was this intellect, resembling rather the 
of a writer of the second order than that of a woman ¢ 
position, that was undoubtedly the cause of her soci 
degradation. | 
It is true that they were not specially elevating, th 
qualities, such as balance and restraint, which Mme, ¢ 
Villeparisis chiefly extolled; but to speak of restraint 1 
a manner that shall be entirely adequate, the word “r 
straint”? is not enough, we require some of the qual 
ties of authorship which presuppose a quite unrestraine 
exaltation; I had remarked at Balbec that the genn 
of certain great artists was completely unintelligible 1 
Mme. de Villeparisis; and that all she could do was 1 
make delicate fun of them and to express her incompri 
hension in a graceful and witty form. But this wit ar 
grace, at the point to which she carried them, becam 
themselves—on another plane, and even although the 
were employed to belittle the noblest masterpieces—try 
artistic qualities. Now the effect of such qualities on ar 
social position is a morbid activity of the kind whi¢ 
doctors call elective, and so disintegrating that the mo 
firmly established pillars of society are hard put to it? 
hold out for any length of time. What artists call intelle! 
seems pure presumption to the fashionable world whi 
unable to place itself at the sole point of view from whic 
they, the artists, look at and judge things, incapable ¢ 
understanding the particular attraction to which thé 
250 | 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


‘eld when they choose an expression or start a friendship, 
el in their company an exhaustion, an irritation, from 
hich antipathy very shortly springs. And yet in her 
mversation, and the same may be said of the Memoirs 
hich she afterwards published, Mme. de Villeparisis 
newed nothing but a sort of grace that was eminently 
ycial. Having passed by great works without mastering, 
metimes without even noticing them, she had preserved 
om the period in which she had lived and which, more- 
ver, she described with great aptness and charm, little 
iore than the most frivolous of the gifts that they had 
ad to offer her. But a narrative of this sort, even when 
treats exclusively of subjects that are not intellectual, 
still a work of the intellect, and to give in a book or in 
onversation, which is almost the same thing, a deliberate 
mpression of frivolity, a serious touch is required which 
(purely frivolous person would be incapable of supplying. 
aa certain book of reminiscences written by a woman 
ad regarded as a masterpiece, the phrase that people 
uote as a model of airy grace has always made me 
spect that, in order to arrive at such a pitch of light- 
less, the author must originally have had a rather stodgy 
ducation, a boring culture, and that as a girl she probably 
peared to her friends an insufferable prig. And between 
ertain literary qualities and social failure the connexion 
' $0 inevitable that when we open Mme. de Villeparisis’s 
femoirs to-day, on any page a fitting epithet, a sequence 
= metaphors will suffice to enable the reader to reconstruct 
ae deep but icy bow which must have been bestowed on 
jae old Marquise on the staircases of the Embassies by 
i) snob like Mme. Leroi, who perhaps may have left a 
fatd on her when she went to call on the Guermantes, 
251 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


but never set foot in her house for fear of losing cast 
among all the doctors’ or solicitors’ wives whom sk 
would find there. A bluestocking Mme. de Villeparisis ha 
perhaps been in her earliest youth, and, intoxicated wit 
the ferment of her own knowledge, had perhaps faile 
to realise the importance of not applying to people i 
society, less intelligent and less educated than _hersel 
those cutting strokes which the injured party neve 
forgets. | 
Moreover, talent is not a separate appendage whid 
one artificially attaches to those qualities which make fi 
social success, in order to create from the whole whi 
people in society call a “complete woman”, It is th 
living product of a certain moral complexion, from whic 
as a rule many moral qualities are lacking and in whi¢ 
there predominates a sensibility of which other manifest) 
tions such as we do not notice in a book may make then 
selves quite distinctly felt in the course of a life, certai 
curiosities for instance, certain whims, the desire to 
te this place or that for one’s own amusement and ne 
with a view to the extension, the maintenance or eve 
the mere exercise of one’s social relations. I had see 
at Balbec Mme. de Villeparisis hemmed in by a bod: 
guard of her own servants without even a glance, as s] 
passed, at the people sitting in the hall of the hote 
But I had had a presentiment that this abstention wi 
due not to indifference, and it seemed that she had m 
always confined herself to it. She would get a sudde 
craze to know some one or other because she had se¢ 
him and thought him good-looking, or merely becaw 
she had been told that he was amusing, or because ]: 
had struck her as different from the people she kner 
252 


i 
| 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


tho at this period, when she had not yet begun to 
bpreciate them because she imagined that they would 
aver fail her, belonged, all of them, to the purest cream 
’ the Faubourg Saint-Germain. To the bohemian, the 
uumble middle-class gentleman whom she had marked 
it with her favour she was obliged to address invitations 
ye importance of which he was unable to appreciate, 
jith an insistence which began gradually to depreciate 
sr in the eyes of the snobs who were in the habit of 
stimating the smartness of a house by the people whom 
is mistress excluded rather than by those whom she en- 
srtained. Certainly, if at a given moment in her youth 
Ime. de Villeparisis, surfeited with the satisfaction of 
elonging to the fine flower of the aristocracy, had found 
/ sort of amusement in scandalising the people among 
thom she lived, and in deliberately impairing her own 
osition in society, she had begun to attach its full im- 
‘ortance to that position once it was definitely lost. She 
ad wished to shew the Duchesses that she was better 
aan they, by saying and doing all the things that they 
ared not say or do. But now that they all, save such 
's were closely related to her, had ceased to call, she 
alt herself diminished, and sought once more to reign, 
fut with another sceptre than that of wit. She would 
lave liked to attract to her house all those women whom 
he had taken such pains to drive away. How many 
romen’s lives, lives of which little enough is known (for 
ve all live in different worlds according to our ages, and 
ae discretion of their elders prevents the young from 
arming any clear idea of the past and so completing the 
ycle), have been divided in this way into contrasted 
eriods, the last being entirely devoted to the reconquest 


253 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


cf what in the second has been so light-heartedly flun/ 
on the wind. Flung on the wind in what way? The youn| 
people are ail the less capable of imagining it, since the! 
see before them an elderly and respectable Marquise d| 
Villeparisis and have no idea that the grave diarist © 
the present day, so dignified beneath her pile of snow’ 
hair, can ever have been a gay midnight-reveller who wa| 
perhaps the delight in those days, devoured the fortune 
perhaps of men now sleeping in their graves; that sh’ 
should also have set to work, with a persevering an 
natural industry, to destroy the position which she omg 
to her high birth does not in the least imply that eve} 
at that remote period Mme. de Villeparisis did not attac) 
great importance to her position. In the same way th 
web of isolation, of inactivity in which a neurastheni 
lives may be woven by him from morning to night withou 
therefore seeming endurable, and while he is hastenin’ 
to add another mesh to the net which holds him captive 
it is possible that he is dreaming only of dancing, spor 
and travel. We are at work every moment upon givin 
its form to our life, but we do so by copying uninten! 
tionally, like the example in a book, the features of thi 
person that we are and not of him who we should lik 
to be. The disdainful bow of Mme. Leroi might to som 
extent be expressive of the true nature of Mme. de Ville 
parisis; it in no way corresponded to her ambition. 


was—to use an expression beloved of Mme. Swann— 
“cutting ” the Marquise, the latter could seek consolation 
in remembering how Queen Marie-Amélie had once sait 
to her: “ You are just like a daughter to me.” But suc 
marks of royal friendship, secret and unknown to the 


254 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


Bd, existed for the Marquise alone, dusty as the diploma 
jf an old Conservatoire medallist. The only true social 
jdvantages are those that create life, that can disappear 
without the person who has benefited by them needing 
0 try to keep them or to make them public, because on 
he same day a hundred others will take their place. 
{nd for all that she could remember the Queen’s using 
those words to her, she would nevertheless have bartered 
hem gladly for the permanent faculty of being asked 
verywhere which Mme. Leroi possessed, as in a restau- 
‘ant a great but unknown artist whose genius is written 
either in the lines of his bashful face nor in the anti- 
uated cut of his threadbare coat, would willingly be 
ven the young stock-jobber, of the lowest grade of society, 
who is sitting with a couple of actresses at a neighbouring 
able to which in an obsequious and incessant chain come 
(urrying manager, head waiter, pages and even the scul- 
uons who file out of the kitchen to salute him, as in the 
airy-tales, while the wine waiter advances, dust-covered 
ike his bottles, limping and dazed, as if on his way up 
rom the cellar he had twisted his foot before emerging 
ato the light of day. 
, It must be remarked, however, that in Mme. de Ville- 
arisis’s drawing-room the absence of Mme. Leroi, if it 
stressed the lady of the house, passed unperceived by 
he majority of her guests. They were entirely ignorant 
f the peculiar position which Mme. Leroi occupied, a 
sition known only to the fashionable world, and never 
oubted that Mme. de Villeparisis’s receptions were, as 
he readers of her Memoirs to-day are convinced that they 
dust have been, the most brilliant in Paris. 

On the occasion of this first call which, after leaving 


255 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


Saint-Loup, I went to pay on Mme. de Villeparisis, fol: 
lowing the advice given by M. de Norpois to my father} 
I found her in her drawing-room hung, with yellow silk) 
against which the sofas and the admirable armchair; 
upholstered in Beauvais tapestry stood out with the 
almost purple redness of ripe raspberries. Side by side 
with the Guermantes and Villeparisis portraits one saw 
those—gifts from the sitters themselves—of Queen Ma. 
rie-Amélie, the Queen of the Belgians, the Prince de 
Joinville and the Empress of Austria. Mme. de Ville’ 
parisis herself, capped with an old-fashioned bonnet 0 
black lace (which she preserved with the same instine 
tive sense of local or historical colour as a Breton inn} 
keeper who, however Parisian his customers may hain 
become, feels it more in keeping to make his maids dresi 
in coifs and wide sleeves), was seated at a little desk or 
which in front of her, as well as her brushes, her palett 
and an unfinished flower-piece in water-colours, were ar} 
ranged in glasses, in saucers, in cups, moss-roses, zinnias 
maidenhair ferns, which on account of the sudden influ; 
of callers she had just left off painting, and which had th 
effect of being piled on a florist’s counter in some eight 
eenth-century mezzotint. In this drawing-room, whicl 
had been slightly heated on purpose because the Mar 
quise had caught cold on the journey from her house i) 
the country, there were already when I arrived a libra! 
rian with whom Mme. de Villeparisis had spent the morn 
ing in selecting the autograph letters to herself from 
various historical personages which were to figure in fac 
simile as documentary evidence in the Memoirs whiel 
she was preparing for the press, and a historian, solemi 
and tongue-tied, who hearing that she had inherited am 

256 


—. 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


ill possessed a portrait of the Duchesse de Montmorency, 
ad come to ask her permission to reproduce it as a plate 
, his work on the Fronde; a party strengthened presently 
y the addition of my old friend Bloch, now a rising 
famatist, upon whom she counted to secure the gratui- 
gus services of actors and actresses at her next series 
{ afternoon parties. It was true that the social kaleido- 
eee was in the act of turning and that the Dreyfus 
ise was shortly to hurl the Jews down to the lowest 
ang of the social ladder. But, for one thing, the anti- 
Jreyfus cyclone might rage as it would, it is not in the 
tst hour of a storm that the waves are highest. In the 
ycond place, Mme. de Villeparisis, leaving a whole section 
her family to fulminate against the Jews, had hitherto 
2pt herself entirely aloof from the Case and never gave 
)a thought. Lastly, a young man like Bloch, whom no 
ae knew, might pass unperceived, whereas leading Jews, 
ppresentatives of their party, were already threatened. 
¢ had his chin pointed now by a goat-beard, wore 
suble glasses and a long frock coat, and carried a glove 
xe a roll of papyrus in his hand. The Rumanians, the 
gyptians, the Turks may hate the Jews. But in a 
tench drawing-room the differences between those 
sop! es are not so apparent, and an Israelite making 
‘Sentry as though he were emerging from the heart of 
e desert, his body crouching like a hyaena’s, his neck 
ust obliquely forward, spreading himself in profound 
Salaams”, completely satisfies a certain taste for the 
ental. ony it is essential that the Jew should not be 
‘tually “in” society, otherwise he will readily assume 
€ aspect of a lord and his manners become so Gallicised 
at on his face a rebellious nose, growing like a nastur- 


F 257 Q 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


tium in any but the right direction, will make one thin] 
rather of Mascarille’s nose than of Solomon’s. But Bloch! 
not having been rendered supple by the gymnastics } 
the Faubourg, nor ennobled by a crossing with Englani 
or Spain, remained for a lover of the exotic as strang) 
and savoury a spectacle, in spite of his European costume 
as one of Decamps’s Jews. Marvellous racial power whic 
from the dawn of time thrusts to the surface, even 1| 
modern Paris, on the stage of our theatres, behind th 
pigeonholes of our public offices, at a funeral, in th) 
street, a solid phalanx, setting their mark upon ov 
modern ways of hairdressing, absorbing, making us forge) 
disciplining the frock coat which on them remains n¢ 
at all unlike the garment in which Assyrian scribes ai| 
depicted in ceremonial attire on the frieze of a monumer, 
at Susa before the gates of the Palace of Darius. (Late 
in the afternoon Bloch might have imagined that it we 
out of anti-semitic malice that M. de Charlus inquire) 
whether his first name was Jewish, whereas it was simp] 
from aesthetic interest’ and love of local colour.) But, 1 
revert for a moment, when we speak of racial persistent 
we do not accurately convey the impression we recet\ 
from Jews, Greeks, Persians, all those peoples whom | 
is better to leave with their differences. We know fro} 
classical paintings the faces of the ancient Greeks, ¥j 
have seen Assyrians on the walls of a palace at Sus 
And so we feel, on encountering in a Paris drawinj 
room Orientals belonging to one or other group, th) 
we are in the presence of creatures whom the forces | 
necromancy must have called to life. We knew hither! 
only a superficial image; behold it has gained depth, | 
extends into three dimensions, it moves. The young Gre 

258 ‘| 


I 


\ 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


dy, daughter of a rich banker and the latest favourite 
- society, looks exactly like one of those dancers who 
| the chorus of a ballet at once historical and aesthetic 
mbolise in flesh and blood the art of Hellas; and yet 
| the theatre the setting makes these images somehow 
ite; the spectacle, on the other hand, to which the entry 
to a drawing-room of a Turkish lady or a Jewish gentle- 
an admits us, by animating their features makes them 
ypear stranger still, as if they really were creatures 
yoked by the effort of a medium. It is the soul (or 
ither the pigmy thing to which—up tothe present, at 
y rate—the soul is reduced in this sort of materialisa- 
mm), it is the soul of which we have caught glimpses 
therto in museums alone, the soul of the ancient Greeks, 
‘the ancient Hebrews, torn from a life at once insig- 
icant and transcendental, which seems to be enacting 
fore our eyes this disconcerting pantomime. In the 
ung Greek lady who is leaving the room what we seek 
vain to embrace is the figure admired long ago on the 
le of a vase. I felt that if I had in the light of Mme. de 
lleparisis’s drawing-room taken photographs of Bloch, 
2y would have furnished of Israel the same image—so 
sturbing because it does not appear to emanate from 
Manity, so deceiving because all the same it is so 
angely like humanity—which we find in spirit photo- 
iphs. There is nothing, to speak more generally, not 
2m the insignificance of the remarks made by the 
dple among whom we spend our lives, that does not give 
a sense of the supernatural, in our every-day world 
ere even a man of genius from whom we expect, 
chered as though around a turning table, to learn the 
ret of the Infinite utters only these words—the same 


259 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


that had just issued from the lips of Bloch: “Take ca} 
of my top hat.” 
“Oh, Ministers, my dear sir,” Mme. de Villeparis| 
was saying, addressing herself specially to my friend, ar 
picking up the thread of a conversation which had be¢ 
broken by my arrival: “ nobody ever wanted to see thet 
I was only a child at the time, but I can remember so wi 
the King begging my grandfather to invite M. Decaz 
to a rout at which my father was to dance with t] 
Duchesse de Berry. ‘It will give me pleasure, Flo 
mond,’ said the King. My grandfather, who was a litt) 
deaf, thought he had said M. de Castries, which seem 
a perfectly natural thing to ask. When he understoi 
that it was M. Decazes, he was furious at first, b 
he gave in, and wrote a note the same evening to }) 
Decazes, begging him to pay my grandfather the comp} 
ment and give him the honour of his presence at the bl 
which he was giving the following week. For we we 
polite, sir, in those days, and no hostess would ha; 
dreamed of simply sending her card and writing on| 
‘Tea’ or ‘Dancing’ or ‘Music’. But if we understol 
politeness we were not incapable of impertinence eit] 
M. Decazes accepted, but the day before the ball it w 
given out that my grandfather felt indisposed and hl 
cancelled his invitations. He had obeyed the King, Et 
he had not had M. Decazes at his ball. ... Yes 
I remember M. Molé very well, he was a clever man 
he shewed that in his reception of M. de Vigny at t 
Academy—but he was very pompous, and I can see h 
now coming downstairs to dinner in his own house wi 
his tall hat in his hand.” 
“Ah! that is typically suggestive of what must het 
260 


I" 
fF 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


een a pretty perniciously philistine epoch, for it was no 
oubt a universal habit to carry one’s hat in one’s hand 
1 one’s own house,” observed Bloch, anxious to make 
ne most of so rare an opportunity of learning from an 
erritness details of the aristocratic life of another day, 
thile the librarian, who was a sort of intermittent secre- 
ary to the Marquise, gazed at her tenderly as though 
e were saying to the rest of us: “There, you see what 
he’s like, she knows everything, she has met everybody, 
ou can ask her anything you like, she’s quite amazing.” 
“Oh, dear, no,” replied Mme. de Villeparisis, drawing 
earer to her as she spoke the glass containing the maiden- 
air which presently she would begin again to paint, “it 
vas a habit M. Molé had; that was all. I never saw my 
ather carry his hat in the house, except of course when 
ae King came, because the King being at home wherever 
eis the master of the house is only a visitor then in his 
wn drawing-room.” 
' Aristotle tells us in the second chapter of . . .” ven-~ 
‘red M. Pierre, the historian of the Reace) but so 
midly that no one paid any attention. Having been 
affering for some weeks from a nervous insomnia which 
asisted every attempt at treatment, he had given up 
ding to bed, and, half-dead with exhaustion, went out 
aly Preseyer his work made it imperative. Incapable of 
*peating at all often these expeditions which, simple 
aough for. other people, cost him as much effort as if, 
) make them, he was obliged to come down from the 
toon, he was surprised to be brought up so frequently 
gainst the fact that other people’s lives were not or- 
anised on a constant and permanent basis so as to fur. 
ish the maximum utility to the sudden outbursts of hig 
261 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


own. He sometimes found the doors shut of a libran 
which he had reached only after setting himself artifij 
cially on his feet and in a frock coat like some automato}) 
in a story by Mr. Wells. Fortunately he had found Mme 
de Villeparisis at home and was going to be shewn ty 
portrait. 

Meanwhile he was cut short by Bloch. “ Indeed,” th 
latter remarked, referring to what Mme. de Villeparisi 
had said as to the Boe for royal visits. “ Do yo 
know, I never knew that,” as though it were strange tha 
he should not have known it always. | 

“Talking of that sort of visit, you heard the stuf 
joke my nephew Basin played on me yesterday morning?’ 
Mme. de Villeparisis asked the librarian. “ He told m| 
people, instead of announcing him, to say that it wa 
the Queen of Sweden who had called to see me.” | 

“What! He made them tell you just like that! I say 
he must have a nerve,” exclaimed Bloch with a shout 
laughter, while the historian smiled with a stately timidity 

“I was quite surprised, because I had only been bac’ 
from the country a few days; I had specially arrange¢ 
just to be left in peace for a little, that no one was to bi 
told that I was in Paris, and I asked myself how th’ 
Queen of Sweden could have heard so soon,” went o| 
Mme. de Villeparisis, leaving her guests amazed to fin| 
that a visit from the Queen of Sweden was in itself no [ 
ing out of the common to their hostess. | 

Farlier in the day Mme. de Villeparisis might hay 
been collaborating with the librarian in arranging th 
illustrations to her Memoirs; now she was, quite uncor, 
sciously, trying their effect on an average public typi 
of that from which she would eventually have to enlir 

262 | 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


r readers. Hers might be different in many ways from 
really fashionable drawing-room in which you would 
ve been struck by the absence of a number of middle 
iss ladies to whom Mme. de Villeparisis was “at 
me”, and would have noticed instead such brilliant 
aders of fashion as Mme. Leroi had in course of time 
anaged to secure, but this distinction is not perceptible in 
r Memoirs, from which certain unimportant friendships 
| the author have disappeared because there is never any 
casion to refer to them; while the absence of those who 
d not come to see her leaves no gap because, in the 
scessarily restricted space at the author’s disposal, only 
few persons can appear, and if these persons are royal 
srsonages, historic personalities, then the utmost im- 
‘ession of distinction which any volume of memoirs can 
mvey to the public is achieved. In the opinion of Mme. 
eroi, Mme. de Villeparisis’s parties were third-rate; and 
sme. de Villeparisis felt the sting of Mme. Leroi’s opinion. 
ut hardly anyone to-day remembers who Mme. Leroi 
as, her opinions have vanished into thin air, and it is 
te drawing-room of Mme. de Villeparisis, frequented as 
was by the Queen of Sweden, and as it had been by 
ie Duc d’Aumale, the Duc de Broglie, Thiers, Mon- 
ilembert, Mer. Dupanloup, which will be looked upon 
; one of the most brilliant of the nineteenth century by 
lat posterity which has not changed since the days of 
fomer and Pindar, and for which the enviable things 
te exalted birth, royal or quasi-royal, and the friendship 
f kings, the leaders of the people and other eminent men. 
| Now of all this Mme. de Villeparisis had her share in 
ae people who still came to her house and in the mem- 
ries—sometimes slightly “touched up”—by means of 
263 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST | 


which she extended her social activity into the past. Ar 
then there was M. de Norpois who, while unable ; 
restore his friend to any substantial position in societ 
did indeed bring to her house such foreign or Frenc 
statesmen as might have need of his services and kne 
that the only effective method of securing them was 
pay court to Mme. de Villeparisis. Possibly Mme. Ler: 
also knew these European celebrities. But, as a wel 
mannered woman who avoids anything that suggests tl, 
bluestocking, she would as little have thought of mer 
tioning the Eastern question to her Prime Ministers ; 
of discussing the nature of love with her novelists an 
philosophers. “ Love?” she had once replied to a pushin 
lady who had asked her: “ What are your views on love?) 
—“ Love? I make it, constantly, but I never talk abou 
it.” When she had any of these literary or political lior 
in her house she contented herself, as did the Duchess 
de Guermantes, with setting them down to play poke 
They often preferred this to the serious conversations 0 
general ideas in which Mme. de Villeparisis forced ther. 
to engage. But these conversations, ridiculous as in th 
social sense they may have been, have furnished th 
Memoirs of Mme. de Villeparisis with those admirabl 
passages, those dissertations on politics which read s 
well in volumes of autobiography, as they do in Corneille 
tragedies. Furthermore, the parties of the Villeparisis ¢ 
this world are alone destined to be handed down t 
posterity, because the Lerois of this world cannot writ 
and, if they could, would not have the time. And if th 
literary bent of the Villeparisis is the cause of the Lerok 
disdain, the disdain of the Lerois does, in its turn, ; 
singular service to the literary bent of the Villeparisis b 
264 


——- 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


‘ffording the bluestockings that leisure which the career 
f letters requires. God, Whose Will it is that there should 
‘ a few books in the world well written, breathes with 
hat purpose such disdain into the hearts of the Lerois, for 
Te knows that if these should invite the Villeparisis to 
inner the latter would at once rise from their writing 
Jables and order their carriages to be round at eight. 

* Presently there came into the room, with slow and 
‘olemn step, an old lady of tall stature who, beneath the 
Jaised brim of her straw hat, revealed a monumental pile 
if snowy hair in the style of Marie-Antoinette. I did not 
then know that she was one of three women who were 
‘till to be seen in Parisian society and who, like Mme. de 
Villeparisis, while all of the noblest birth, had been re- 
‘luced, for reasons which were now lost in the night of 
‘ime and could have been told us only by some old gallant 
‘of their period, to entertaining only certain of the dregs 
if society who were not sought after elsewhere. Each of 
these ladies had her own “ Duchesse de Guermantes ” 
the brilliant niece who came regularly to pay her alae 
jut none of them could have succeeded in attracting to 
4er house the “ Duchesse de Guermantes” of either of 
the others. Mme. de Villeparisis was on the best of terms 
vith these three ladies, but she did not like them. Perhaps 
the similarity between their social position and her own 
‘rave her an impression of them which was not pleasing. 
Besides, soured bluestockings as they were, seeking by the 
fAumber and frequency of the drawing-room comedies 
vhich they arranged in their houses to give themselves 
he illusion of a regular salon, there had grown up among 
‘hem a rivalry which the decay of Ae fortune in the 
tourse of a somewhat tempestuous existence reduced for 
: 265 


| 
REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST | 


each of them, when it was a question of securing the kir 
assistance of a professional actor or actress, into a sort | 
struggle for life. Furthermore, the lady with the Mari 
Antoinette hair, whenever she set eyes on Mme. de Vill! 


parisis, could not help being reminded of the fact th, 
the Duchesse de Guermantes did not come to her Friday 
Her consolation was that at these same Fridays she cou 
always count on having, blood being thicker than wate 
the Princesse de Poix, who was her own personal Gue 
mantes, and who never went near Mme. de Villeparisi 
albeit Mme. de Poix was an intimate friend of tl 
Duchess. 
Nevertheless from the mansion on the Quai Malaqua 
to the drawing-rooms of the Rue de Tournon, the Ri 
de la Chaise and the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, a bond ; 
compelling as it was hateful united the three falle 
goddesses, as to whom I would fain have learned t 
searching in some dictionary of social mythology throug 
what gallant adventure, what sacrilegious presumptio. 
they had incurred their punishment. Their common bri 
lance of origin, the common decay of their present sta’ 
entered largely, no doubt, into the necessity which con! 
pelled them, while hating one another, to frequent or 
another’s society. Besides, each of them found in th 
others a convenient way of being polite to her own guest 
How should these fail to suppose that they had scale 
the most inaccessible peak of the Faubourg when the 
were introduced to a lady with a string of titles whos 
sister was married to a Duc de Sagan or a Prince d 
Ligne? Especially as there was infinitely more in th 
newspapers about these sham salons than about th 
genuine ones. Indeed these old ladies’ “ men about town 
266 


— —-— 


<> —-- 


“ Ou 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


ephews—and Saint-Loup the foremost of them—when 
isked by a friend to introduce him to people, would 
inswer at once “I will take you to see my aunt Ville- 
‘arisis,” (or whichever it was) “you meet interesting 
eople there.” They knew very well that this would 
ean less trouble for themselves than trying to get the 
aid friends invited by the smart nieces or sisters-in-law 
if these ladies. Certain very old men, and young women 
tho had heard it from those men, told me that if these 
idies were no longer received in society it was because 
f the extraordinary irregularity of their conduct, which, 
then I objected that irregular conduct was not neces- 
arily a barrier to social success, was represented to me 
s having gone far beyond eine that we know to-day. 
he misconduct of these solemn dames who held them- 
elves so erect assumed on the lips of those who hinted 
tit something that I was incapable of imagining, pro- 
ortionate to the magnitude of prehistoric days, to the 
‘ge of the mammoth. In a word, these three Parcae with 
heir white or blue or red locks had spun the fatal threads 
f an incalculable number of gentlemen. I felt that the 
eople of to-day exaggerated the vices of those fabulous 
mes, like the Greeks who created Icarus, Theseus, 
Teracles out of men who had been but little different 
com those who long afterwards deified them. But one 
‘oes not tabulate the sum of a person’s vices until he has 
Imost ceased to be in a fit state to practise them, when 
rom the magnitude of his social punishment, which is 
Aen nearing the completion of its term and which alone 
ne can estimate, one measures, one imagines, one exag- 
erates that of the crime that has Been ee a 
aat gallery of symbolical figures which is “ society ”, the 
267 


| 
| 


it 


—$—$ $$ 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


really light women, the true Messalinas, invariably present 
the solemn aspect of a lady of at least seventy, with an 
air of lofty distinction, who entertains everyone she can 
but not everyone she would like to have, to whose house 
women will never consent to go whose own conduct falls 
in any way short of perfection, to whom the Pope reg- 
ularly sends his Golden Rose, and who as often as not 
has written—on the early days of Lamartine—an essay 
that has been crowned by the French Academy. “ How 
d’ye do, Alix?” Mme. de Villeparisis greeted the Marie- 
Antoinette lady, which lady cast a searching glance round 
the assembly to see whether there was not in this drawing- 
room any item that might be a valuable addition to her 
own, in which case she would have to discover it for her- 
self, for Mme. de Villeparisis, she was sure, would be 
spiteful enough to try to keep it from her. Thus Mme. de 
Villeparisis took good care not to introduce Bloch to the 
old lady for fear of his being asked to produce the same 
play that he was arranging for her in the drawing-room! 
of the Quai Malaquais. Besides it was only tit for taty 
For, the evening before, the old lady had had Mme. 
Ristori, who had recited, and had taken care that Mine, 
de Villeparisis, from whom she had filched the Italian 
artist, should not hear of this function until it was over. 
So that she should not read it first in the newspapers and 
feel annoyed, the old lady had come in person to tell 
her about it, shewing no sense of guilt. Mme. de Ville- 
parisis, considering that an introduction of myself was not 
likely to have the same awkward results as that of Bloch, 
made me known to the Marie-Antoinette of the Quai 
Malaquais. The latter, who sought, by making the fewest 
possible movements, to preserve in her old age those 

268 | 


oe 


oe 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


ines, as of a Coysevox goddess, which had years ago 
charmed the young men of fashion and which spurious 
soets still celebrated in rhymed charades—and had ac- 
quired the habit of a lofty and compensating stiffness 
yommon to all those whom a personal degradation obliges 
xo be continually making advances—just perceptibly 
lowered her head with a frigid majesty, and, turning the 
other way, took no more notice of me than if I had not 
existed. By this crafty attitude she seemed to be assur- 
ing Mme. de Villeparisis: “You see, I’m nowhere near 
him; please understand that I’m not interested—in any 
sense of the word, you old cat—in little boys.” But when, 
twenty minutes later, she left the room, taking advantage 
‘of the general conversation, she slipped into my ear an 
invitation to come to her box the following Friday with 
another of the three, whose high-sounding pe wea: had 
been born a Choiseul, moreover—had a prodigious effect 
‘on me. 

' “JT understand, sir, that you are thinkin’ of writin’ 
‘somethin’ about Mme. la Duchesse de Montmorency,” 
said Mme. de Villeparisis to the historian of the Fronde 
in that grudging tone which she allowed, quite uncon- 
'sciously, to spoil the effect of her great and genuine kind- 
mess, a tone due to the shrivelling crossness, the sense 
‘of grievance that is a physiological accompaniment of 
‘age, as well as to the affectation of imitating the almost 
Tustic speech of the old nobility: “ I’m goin’ to let you see 
‘her portrait, the original of the copy they have in the 
‘Louvre.” 

She rose, laying down her brushes beside the flowers, 
and the little apron which then came into sight at her 
‘waist, and which she wore so as not to stain her dress with 
269 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


paints, added still further to the impression of an old 
peasant given by her bonnet and her big spectacles, and 
offered a sharp contrast to the luxury of her appointments, 
the butler who had brought in the tea and cakes, th 
liveried footman for whom she now rang to light up the. 
portrait of the Duchesse de Montmorency, Abbess of one 
of the most famous Chapters in the East of France, 
Everyone had risen. “What is rather amusin’,” said our 
hostess, “is that in these Chapters where our great-aunts, 
were so often made Abbesses, the daughters of the King 
of France would not have been admitted. They were very 
close corporations.” “Not admit the King’s daughters,” 
cried Bloch in amazement, “ why ever not?” “ Why, be- 
cause the House of France had not enough quarterin’s 
after that low marriage.” Bloch’s bewilderment increased, 
“A low marriage? The House of France? When was. 
that?” “Why, when they married into the Medicis,” 
replied Mme. de Villeparisis in the most natural manner, 
“It’s a fine picture, ain’t it, and in a perfect state of 
preservation,” she added. | 

“My dear,” put in the Marie-Antoinette lady, “ surely 
you remember that when I brought Liszt to see you he. 
said that it was this one that was the copy.” | 

“TI should bow to any opinion of Liszt on music, but 
not on painting. Besides, he was quite off his head then, 
and I don’t remember his ever saying anything of the 
sort. But it wasn’t you that brought him here. I had 
met him any number of times at dinner at Princess Say 
Wittgenstein’s.” 

Alix’s shot had missed fire; she stood silent, erect anf] 
motionless. Plastered with layers of powder, her face had 
the appearance of a face of stone. And, as the profile 


270 


—_— 


+ 


—- 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


‘as noble, she seemed, on a triangular and moss-grown 
edestal hidden by her cape, the time-worn stucco goddess 
fa park. 

“Ah, I see another fine portrait,” began the historian. 
“The door opened and the Duchesse de Guermantes 


tered the room. 


“Well, how are you?” Mme. de Villeparisis greeted 
‘er without moving her head, taking from her apron- 
ocket a hand which she held out to the newcomer; and 
hen ceasing at once to take any notice of her niece, in 
der to return to the historian: “That is the portrait of 
he Duchesse de La Rochefoucauld....” 
_ A young servant with a bold manner and a charming 
ace (but so finely chiselled, to ensure its perfection, that 
he nose was a little red and the rest of the skin slightly 
lushed as though they were still smarting from the recent 
ind sculptural incision) came in bearing a card on a 
‘alver. 
' “Tt is that gentleman who has been several times to 
see Mme. la Marquise.” 
' “Did you tell him I was at home? ” 
' “He heard the voices.” 
_ “Oh, very well then, shew him in. It’s a man who was 
‘troduced to me,” she explained. “He told me he was 
very anxious to come to the house. I certainly never 
said he might. But here he’s taken the trouble to 
vall five times now; it doesn’t do to hurt people’s feelings. 
Sir,” she went on to me, “and you, Sir,” to the historian 
of the Fronde, “let me introduce my niece, the Duchesse 
de Guermantes.” 
_ The historian made a low bow, as I did also, and since 
he seemed to suppose that some friendly remark ought 
ry 


| 
| 


) 
| 


| 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST | 
to follow this salute, his eyes brightened and he wa! 
preparing to open his mouth when he was once mor 
frozen by the sight of Mme. de Guermantes who 3 
taken advantage of the independence of her torso ti 
throw it forward with an exaggerated politeness anc 
bring it neatly back to a position of rest without letting 
face or eyes appear to have noticed that anyone wat 
standing before them; after breathing a gentle sigh shi 
contented herself with manifesting the nullity of thi 
impression that had been made on her by the sight of 
the historian and myself by performing certain move 
ments of her nostrils with a precision that testified to the 
absolute inertia of her unoccupied attention. i 

The importunate visitor entered the room, making 
straight for Mme de Villeparisis with an ingenuous, 
fervent air: it was Legrandin. | 

“Thank you so very much for letting me come and 


see you,” he began, laying stress on the word “very ”, 
, gan, lay 


“Tt is a pleasure of a quality altogether rare and subtle 
that you confer on an old solitary; I assure you that its re- 
Percussion: 47) He stopped short on catching sight of me. 
“I was just shewing this gentleman a fine portrait of 
the Duchesse de La Rochefoucauld, the wife of the author 
of the Maxims; it’s a family picture.” | 
Mme. de Guermantes meanwhile had greeted Alix, with 
apologies for not having been able, that year as in ei 
previous year, to go and see her. “I hear all about you | 
from Madeleine,” she added. | . 
“She was at luncheon with me to-day,” said the Mar- 
quise of the Quai Malaquais, with the Satisfying reflexion 
that Mme. de Villeparisis could never say that. i) 
Meanwhile I had been talking to Bloch, and fearing, | 


272 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


rom what I had been told of his father’s change of 
ttitude towards him, that he might be envying my life, 
said to him that his must be the happier of the two. 
My remark was prompted solely by my desire to be 
riendly. But such friendliness readily convinces those 
vyho cherish a high opinion of themselves of their own 
sood fortune, or gives them a desire to convince other 
eople. “ Yes, I do lead a delightful existence,” Bloch 
issured me with a beatified smile. “I have three great 
riends; I do not wish for one more; an adorable mistress; 
am infinitely happy. Rare is the mortal to whom Father 
Zeus accords so much felicity.” I fancy that he was anx- 
ous principally to extol himself and to make me envious. 
erhaps too there was some desire to shew originality 
n his optimism. It was evident that he did not wish 
0 reply in the commonplace phraseology that everybody 
ases: “Oh, it was nothing, really,” and so forth, when, 
0 my question: “Was it a good show?” put with regard 
0 an afternoon dance at his house to which I had been 
wrevented from going, he replied in a level, careless tone, 
is if the dance had been given by some one else: “ Why, 
res, it was quite a good show, couldn’t have been better. 
t was really charming!” 
“What you have just told us interests me enormously,” 
aid Legrandin to Mme. de Villeparisis, “ for I was saying 
.o myself only the other day that you shewed a marked 
ikeness to him in the clear-cut turn of your speech, in 
i quality which I will venture to describe by two con- 
‘radictory terms, monumental rapidity and immortal in- 
‘tantaneousness. I should have liked this afternoon to 
lake down all the things you say; but I shall remember 
them. They are, in a phrase which comes, I think, from 


1 273 R 


| 


| 


7 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST | 


Joubert, friends of the memory. You have never reac 
Joubert? Oh! he would have admired you so! I will take 
the liberty this evening of sending you a set of him, it i¢ 
a privilege to make you a present of his mind. He had. 
not your strength. But he had a great deal of charm 
all the same.” | : 
I would have gone up to Legrandin at once and spoker 
to him, but he kept as far away from me as he could, ne 
doubt in the hope that I might not overhear the stream 
of flattery which, with a remarkable felicity of expression 
he kept pouring out, whatever the topic, to Mme. de 
Villeparisis. | 
She shrugged her shoulders, smiling, as though he hac 
been trying to make fun of her, and turned to the 
historian. i 
“And this is the famous Marie de Rohan, Duchesse de 
Chevreuse, who was married first of all to M. de Luynes,” | 
“My dear, speaking of Mme. de Luynes reminds me 
of Yolande; she came to me yesterday evening, and if ] 
had known that you weren’t engaged I’ld have sent rounc¢ 
to ask you to come. Mme. Ristori turned up quite by 
chance, and recited some poems by Queen Carmen Sylve 
in the author’s presence. It was too beautiful! ” i 
“What treachery!” thought Mme. de Villeparisis. “ Oi 
course that was what she was whispering about the other 
day to Mme. de Beaulaincourt and Mme. de Chaponay, 
I had no engagement,” she replied, “ but I should not have 
come. I heard Ristori in her great days, she’s a mere 
wreck now. Besides I detest Carmen Sylva’s poetry. Ris- 
tori came here once, the Duchess of Aosta brought her, 
to recite a canto of the Inferno, by Dante. In that sort ol 
thing she’s incomparable.” 
274 | 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


' Alix bore the blow without flinching. She remained 
marble. Her gaze was piercing and blank, her nose 
sroudly arched. But the surface of one cheek was scaling. 
rn faint, strange vegetation, green and pink, was invading 
aer chin. Perhaps another winter would level her with 
the dust. 
- “Now, sir, if you are fond of painting, look at the por- 
‘rait of Mme. de Montmorency,” Mme. de Villeparisis 
said to Legrandin, to stop the flow of compliments which 
vas beginning again. 
| Seizing her opportunity, while his back was turned, 
Mme. de Guermantes pointed to him, with an ironical, 
questioning look at her aunt. 
_ “Tt’s M. Legrandin,” murmured Mme. de Villeparisis, 
*he has a sister called Mme. de Cambremer, not that that 
sonveys any more to you than it does to me.” 
| “What! Oh, but I know her quite well!” exclaimed 
Mme. de Guermantes, and put her hand over her lips. 
“That is to say, I don’t know her, but for some reason 
or other Basin, who meets the husband heaven knows 
where, took it into his head to tell the wretched woman 
he might call on me. And she did. I can’t tell you what 
t was like. She informed me that she had been to Lon- 
don, and gave me a complete catalogue of all the things 
nthe British Museum. And this very day, the moment I 
‘eave your house, I’m going, just as you see me now, to 
lrop a card on the monster. And don’t for a moment sup- 
pose that it’s an easy thing to do. On the pretence that 
the’s dying of some disease she’s always at home, it 
doesn’t matter whether you arrive at seven at night or 
dine in the morning, she’s ready for you with a dish of 
itrawberry tarts. 


275 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


“No, but seriously, you know, she is a monstrosity, | 
Mme. de Guermantes replied to a questioning glance fror| 
her aunt. “She’s an impossible person, she talks abou 
‘plumitives’ and things like that.” “What does * plum 
tive’ mean?” asked Mme. de Villeparisis. “I haven 
the slightest idea!” cried the Duchess in mock indignatior) 
“T don’t want to know. I don’t speak that sort of lan 
guage.” And seeing that her aunt really did not knoy 
what a plumitive was, to give herself the satisfaction ¢ 
shewing that she was a scholar as well as a purist, an! 
to make fun of her aunt, now, after making fun of Mmé 
de Cambremer: “ Why, of course,” she said, with a hal: 
laugh which the last traces of her pretended ill humow 
kept in check, “everybody knows what it means; | 
plumitive is a writer, a person who holds a pen. But it’s | 
dreadful word. It’s enough to make your wisdom teet 
drop out. Nothing will ever make me use words like tha’ 

“‘ And so that’s the brother, is it? I hadn’t realized th 
yet. But after all it’s not inconceivable. She has the sam} 
doormat docility and the same mass of informati 
like a circulating library. She’s just as much of a flattere 
as he is, and just as boring. Yes, I’m beginning to see tt 
family likeness now quite plainly.” | 

“Sit down, we’re just going to take a dish of tea,” sail 
Mme. de Villeparisis to her niece. “ Help yourself; yo 
don’t want to look at the pictures of wou great-granc 
mothers, you know them as well as I do.” | 

Presently Mme. de Villeparisis sat down again at h¢ 
desk and went on with her painting. The rest of the part} 
gathered round her, and I took the opportunity to go y 
to Legrandin and, seeing no harm myself in his presen¢ 
in Mme. de Villeparisis’s drawing-room and never drean 

276 


ne) 


—e 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


og how much my words would at once hurt him and make 
um believe that I had deliberately intended to hurt him, 
ay: “Well, sir, I am almost excused for coming to a tea- 
arty when I find you here too.” M. Legrandin concluded 
tom this speech (at least this was the opinion which he 
xpressed of me a few days later) that I was a thoroughly 
piteful little wretch who delighted only in doing mischief, 
“You might at least have the civility to begin by saying 
ow d’ye do to me,” he replied, without offering me his 
and and in a coarse and angry voice which I had never 
4spected him of possessing, a voice which bearing no 


yaceable relation to what he ordinarily said did bear 
nother more immediate and striking relation to some- 
ung that he was feeling at the moment. What happens 
that since we are determined always to keep our feel- 
gs to ourselves, we have never given any thought to the 
‘anner in which we should express them. And suddenly 
lere is within us a strange and obscene animal making 
3 voice heard, the tones of which may inspire as much 
tror in the listener who receives the involuntary elliptical 
resistible communication of our defect or vice as would 
e sudden avowal indirectly and uncouthly proffered by - 
criminal who can no longer refrain from confessing a 
urder of which one had never imagined him to be guilty. 
knew, of course, that idealism, even subjective idealism 
d not prevent great philosophers from still having hearty 
petites or from presenting themselves with untiring per- 
verance for election to the Academy. But really Legran- 
o had no occasion to remind people so often that he be- 
aged to another planet when all his convulsive move- 
ents of anger or affability were governed by the desire 
occupy a good position on this. 


277 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


“Naturally, when people pester me twenty times Oo. 
end to go anywhere,” he went on in lower tones, “ althoug: 
I am perfectly free to do what I choose, still I can’t behav! 
like an absolute boor.” 

Mme. de Guermantes had sat down. Her name, accom 
panied as it was by her title, added to her corporeal d’ 
mensions the duchy which projected itself round abot 
her and brought the shadowy, sun-splashed coolness ¢ 
the woods of Guermantes into this drawing-room, to su! 
round the tuffet on which she was sitting. I felt surprise! 
only that the likeness of those woods was not more di 
cernible on the face of the Duchess, about which the 
was nothing suggestive of vegetation, and at the most tl 
ruddy discolouration of her cheeks—which ought rathe 
surely, to have been emblazoned with the name Gue 
mantes—was the effect, but did not furnish a picture 
long gallops in the open air. Later on, when she had ceas¢ 
to interest me, I came to know many of the Duches 
peculiarities, notably (to speak for the moment only | 
that one of which I already at this time felt the char! 
though without yet being able to discover what it was) h 
eyes, in which was held captive as in a picture the bh 
sky of an afternoon in France, broadly expansive, bathe 
in light even when no sun shone; and a voice which of 
would have thought, from its first hoarse sounds, to ; 
almost plebeian, through which there trailed, as over t 
steps of the church at Combray or the pastry-cook’s | 
the square, the rich and lazy gold of a country sun. B? 
on this first day I discerned nothing, the warmth of 
attention volatilised at once the little that I might othe 
wise have been able to extract from her, in which I shoul 
have found some indication of the name Guermantes. 

278 


| 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


| 

| 

any case, I told myself that it was indeed she who was 
designated for all the world by the title Duchesse de 
‘Guermantes: the inconceivable life which that name sig- 
ified, this body did indeed contain; it had just intro- 
duced that life into a crowd of different creatures, in this 
toom which enclosed it on every side and on which it 
oroduced so violent a reaction that I thought I could see, 
where the extent of that mysterious life ceased, a fringe 
of effervescence outline its frontiers: round the circum-— 
Terence of the circle traced on the carpet by the balloon 
of her blue peking skirt, and in the bright eyes of the 
‘Duchess at the point of intersection of the preoccupations, 
the memories, the incomprehensible, scornful, amused and 
surious thoughts which filled them from within and the 
outside images that were reflected on their surface. Per- 
aps I should have been not quite so deeply stirred had I 
‘net her at Mme. de Villeparisis’s at an evening party, in- 
itead of seeing her thus on one of the Marquise’s “ days ”, 
At one of those tea-parties which are for women no more 
than a brief halt in the course of their afternoon’s outing, 
when, keeping on the hats in which they have been driving 
‘hrough the streets, they waft into the close atmosphere 
of a drawing-room the quality of the fresh air outside, and 
tive one a better view of Paris in the late afternoon than 
lo the tall, open windows through which one can hear the 
»owling wheels of their victorias: Mme. de Guermantes 
ore a boating-hat trimmed with cornflowers, and what 
hey recalled to me was not, among the tilled fields round 
“ombray where I had so often gathered those flowers, on 
he slope adjoining the Tansonville hedge, the suns of 
vygone years, it was the scent and dust of twilight as 
hey had been an hour ago, when Mme. de Guermantes 


279 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


drove through them, in the Rue de la Paix. With a smil 
ing, disdainful, vague air, and a grimace on her pursec 
lips, with the point of her sunshade, as with the extrem 
tip of an antenna of her mysterious life, she was traciny 
circles on the carpet; then, with that indifferent attentioy 
which begins by eliminating every point of contact witl 
what one is actually studying, her gaze fastened upon eacl 
of us in turn; then inspected the sofas and armchairs, bu, 
softened this time by that human sympathy which 7 
aroused by the presence, however insignificant, of a thiny 
one knows, a thing that is almost a person; these pieces 0 
furniture were not like us, they belonged vaguely to he| 
world, they were bound up with the life of her aunt; the} 
from the Beauvais furniture her gaze was carried back t| 
the person sitting on it, and resumed then the same ai 
of perspicacity and that same disapproval which the re 
spect that Mme. de Guermantes felt for her aunt woul 
have prevented her from expressing in words, but whic; 
she would obviously have felt had she discovered on th 
chairs, instead of our presence, that of a spot of greas| 
or a layer of dust. | 
That admirable writer G entered the room; 
had come to pay a call on Mme. de Villeparisis which 
regarded as a tiresome duty. The Duchess, although de 
lighted to see him again, gave him no sign of welcome, bt 
instinctively he made straight for her, the charm that sh 
possessed, her tact, her simplicity making him look upoil 
her as a woman of exceptional intelligence. He was bounce 
moreover, in common politeness to go and talk to her, fo'} 
since he was a pleasant and a distinguished man, Mme. d} 
Guermantes frequently invited him to luncheon even wit} 
there were only her husband and herself besides, or i/§ 
280 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


he autumn to Guermantes, making use of this intimacy 
0 have him to dinner occasionally with Royalties who 
vere curious to meet him. For the Duchess liked to enter- 
ain certain eminent men, on condition always that they 
vere bachelors, a condition which, even when married, 
hey invariably fulfilled for her, for, as their wives, who 
tere bound to be more or less common, would have been 
blot on a drawing-room in which there were never any 
ut the most fashionable beauties in Paris, it was always 
mthout them that their husbands were invited; and the 
Juke, to avoid hurting any possible susceptibility, used 
) explain to these involuntary widowers that the Duchess 
‘ever had women in the house, could not endure feminine 
dciety, almost as though this had been under doctor’s 
tders, and as he might have said that she could not stay 
1a room in which there were smells, or eat salt food, or 
tavel with her back to the engine, or wear stays. It was 
‘ue that these eminent men used to see at the Guerman- 
ts’ the Princesse de Parme, the Princesse de Sagan 
whom Francoise, hearing her constantly mentioned, had 
tken to calling,in the belief that this feminine ending 
‘as required by the laws of accidence, “the Sagante’’), 
d plenty more, but their presence was accounted for 
y the explanation that they were relatives, or such very 
d friends that it was impossible to exclude them. Whether 
* mot they were convinced by the explanations which the 
tuc de Guermantes had given of the singular malady 
iat made it impossible for the Duchess to associate with 
ther women, the great men duly transmitted them to 
‘eir wives. Some of these thought that this malady was 
aly an excuse to cloak her jealousy, because the Duchess 
ished to reign alone over a court of worshippers. Others 
281 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


more simple still thought that perhaps the Duchess ha 
some peculiar habit, a scandalous past it might be, thé 
women did not care to go to her house and that she gay 
the name of a whim to what was stern necessity. Th 
better among them, hearing their husbands expatiate 
the Duchess’s marvellous brain, assumed that she mui 
be so far superior to the rest of womankind that she fou 
their society boring since they could not talk intelligentl 
about anything. And it was true that the Duchess wé 
bored by other women, if their princely rank did n 
render them specially interesting. But the excluded wive 
were mistaken when they imagined that she chose 1 
entertain men alone in order to be free to discuss wi 
them literature, science and philosophy. For she nev 
referred to these, at least with the great intellectuals. ] 
by virtue of a family tradition such as makes the daug 
ters of great soldiers preserve, in the midst of their mo 
frivolous distractions, a respect for military matters, ml 
the granddaughter of women who had been on terms | 
friendship with Thiers, Mérimée and Augier, felt that 
place must always be kept in her drawing-room for m 
of intellect, she had on the other hand derived from tl 
manner, at once condescending and intimate, in which tho 
famous men had been received at Guermantes the foi 
of looking on men of talent as family friends whose tale 
does not dazzle one, to whom one does not speak of the 
work, and who would not be at all interested if one di 
Moreover the type of mind illustrated by Mérimée a 
Meilhac and Halévy, which was hers also, led her by re 
tion from the verbal sentimentality of an earlier gener 
tion to a style in conversation that rejects everything to 
with fine language and the expression of lofty thoughts, 

282 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


hat she made it a sort of element of good breeding when 
he was with a poet or a musician to talk only of the food 
hat they were eating or the game of cards to which they 
ould afterwards sit down. This abstention had, on a 
hird person not conversant with her ways, a disturbing 
ffect which amounted to mystification. Mme. de Guer- | 
antes, having asked him whether it would amuse him 
‘come to luncheon to meet this or that famous poet, de- 
oured by curiosity he would arrive at the appointed hour. 
“he Duchess was talking to the poet about the weather. 
“hey sat down to luncheon. “Do you like this way of 
oing eggs?” she asked the poet. On hearing his approval, 
hich she shared, for everything in her own house ap- 


tore egos,” she would tell the butler, while the anxious 
ellow-guest sat waiting for what must surely have been the 
bject of the party, since they had arranged to meet, in 
pite of every sort of difficulty, before the Duchess, 
ge poet and he himself left Paris. But the meal went on, 
me after another the courses were cleared away, not 
‘"ithout having first provided Mme. de Guermantes with 
portunities for clever witticisms or apt stories. Mean- 
vhile the poet went on eating, and neither Duke nor 
Juchess shewed any sign of remembering that he was a 
et. And presently the luncheon came to an end and 
ne party broke up, without a word having been said about 
ae poetry which, for all that, everyone admired but to 
which, by a reserve analogous to that of which Swann had 
iven me a foretaste, no one might refer. This reserve 
‘as simply a matter of good form. But for the fellow- 
uest, if he thought at all about the matter, there was 
283 


$$ 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


something strangely melancholy about it all, and thes 
reals in the Guermantes household made him think o 
the hours which timid lovers often spend together i 
talking trivialities until it is time to part, without—whether 
from shyness, from audacity or from awkwardness—the 
great secret which they would have been happier had they 
confessed ever succeeding in passing from their hearts t 
their lips. It must, however, he added that this silence 
with regard to the serious matters which one was alway: 
waiting in vain to see approached, if it might pass a 
characteristic of the Duchess, was by no means constan 
with her. Mme. de Guermantes had spent her girlhoo 
in a society somewhat different, equally aristocratic bu 
less brilliant and above all less futile than that in whiel 
she now lived, and one of wide culture. It had left beneat 
her present frivolity a sort of bed-rock of greater solidit 
invisibly nutritious, to which indeed the Duchess woulk 
repair in search (very rarely, though, for she detest 
pedantry) of some quotation from Victor Hugo or Lamar 
tine which, extremely appropriate, uttered with a look 
true feeling from her fine eyes, never failed to surpris’ 
and charm her audience. Sometimes, even, without ani 
pretence of authority, pertinently and quite simply, sh 
would give some dramatist and Academician a piece cd 
sage advice, would make him modify a situation or alte 
an ending. 

If, in the drawing room of Mme. de Villeparisis, jus 
as in the church at Combray, on the day of Mlle. Per 
cepied’s wedding, I had difficulty in discovering, in th 
handsome, too human face of Mme. de Guermantes th 
unknown element of her name, I at least thought tha’ 
when she spoke, her conversation, profound, mysteriou’ 

284 


——————— 


SHE GUERMANTES WAY 


jwould have a strangeness as of a mediaeval tapestry or a 
‘gothic window. But in order that I should not be disap- 
pointed by the words which I should hear uttered by a 
‘person who called herself Mme. de Guermantes, even if 
Thad not been in love with her, it would not have sufficed 
‘that those words were fine, beautiful and profound, they 
would have had to reflect that amaranthine colour of the 
(closing syllable of her name, that colour which I had on 
my first sight of her been disappointed not to find in her 
\person and had driven to take refuge in her mind. Of 
‘course I had already heard Mme. de Villeparisis, Saint- 
Loup, people whose intelligence was in no way extraor- 
dinary, pronounce without any precaution this name Guer- 
‘mantes, simply as that of a person who was coming to see 


them or with whom they had promised to dine, without 
seeming to feel that there were latent in her name the glow 
jot yellowing woods in autumn and a whole mysterious 
tract of country. But this must have been an affectation 
on their part, as when the classic poets give us no warn- 
ing of the profound purpose which they had, all the same, 
iM writing, an affectation which I myself also strove to 
imitate, saying in the most natural tone: “The Duchesse 
de Guermantes,” as though it were a name that was just 
ike other names. And then everybody assured me that 
she was a highly intelligent woman, a clever talker, that 
she was one of a little group of most interesting people: 
words which became accomplices of my dream. For when 
they spoke of an intelligent group, of clever talk, it was 
iot at all the sort of intelligence that I knew that I 
Magined, not even that of the greatest minds, it was not 
it all with men like Bergotte that I peopled this group. 
No, by intelligence I understood an ineffable faculty 
285 

| 


| 
REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST | 
gilded by the sun, impregnated with a sylvan coolness.) 
Indeed, had she made the most intelligent remarks (in the 
sense in which I understood the word when it was usell 
of a philosopher or critic), Mme. de Guermantes would 
perhaps have disappointed even more keenly my expec- 
tation of so special a faculty than if, in the course of a 
trivial conversation, she had confined herself to discussing 
kitchen recipes or the furnishing of a country house, to 
mentioning the names of neighbours and relatives of her 
own, which would have given me a picture of her life,| 
“TI thought I should find Basin here, he was meaning 
to come and see you to-day,” said Mme. de Guermantes, 
to her aunt. | 
“TI haven’t set eyes on your husband for some days,”| 
replied Mme. de Villeparisis in a somewhat nettled tone, 
“In fact, I haven’t seen him—well, I have seen him once, 
perhaps—since that charming joke he played on me of 
making my servants announce him as the Queen of 
Sweden.” 
Mme. de Guermantes formed a smile by contracting 
the corners of her mouth as though she were biting her 
veil. | 
“We met her at dinner last night at Blanche Leroi’s. 
You wouldn’t know her now, she’s positively enormous; 
I’m sure she must have something the matter with her.” 
“I was just oes these gentlemen that you said sa 
looked like a frog.” 
Mme. de Guermantes uttered a sort of raucous sound 
intended to signify that she acknowledged the compliment. 
“I don’t remember making such a charming compari- 
son, but if she was one before, now she’s the frog that has’ 
succeeded in swelling to the size of the ox. Or rather, 
286 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


it isn’t quite that, because all her swelling is concentrated 
in front of her waist, she’s more like a frog in an interest- 
ing condition.” 

_ “Ah, that is quite clever,” said Mme. de Villeparisis, 
secretly proud that her guests should be witnessing this 
display of her niece’s wit. 

“It is purely arbitrary, though,’ answered Mme. de 
Guermantes, ironically detaching this selected epithet, as 
Swann would have done, “for I must admit I never saw 
a frog in the family way. Anyhow, the frog in question, 
who, by the way, is not asking for a king, for I never saw 
her so skittish as she’s been since her husband died, is 
coming to dine with us one day next week. I promised 
‘Pld let you know in good time.” 

_ Mme. de Villeparisis gave vent to a confused growl, 
from which emerged: “I know she was dining with the 
Mecklenburgs the night before last. Hannibal de 
‘Breauté was there. He came and told me about it, and 
‘Was quite amusing, I must say.” 

“There was a man there who’s a great deal wittier than 
'Babal,” said Mme. de Guermantes who, in view of her 
ese Pann with M. de Bréauté-Consalvi, felt that 
she must advertise their intimacy by the use of this 
abbreviation. “I mean M. Bergotte.” 

I had never imagined that Bergotte could be regarded 
jas witty; in fact, I thought of him always as mingling 
with the intellectual section of humanity, that is to say 
Anfinitely remote from that mysterious realm of which I 
had caught a glimpse through the purple hangings of a 
theatre box, behind which, making the Duchess smile, M. de 
'Bréauté was holding with her, in the language of the gods, 
that unimaginable thing, a conversation between people 

287 


} 
| 
REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST | 
of the Faubourg Saint-Germain. I was stupefied to Bi 
the balance upset, and Bergotte rise above M. de Bréauteé 
But above all I was dismayed to think that I had avoided! 
Bergotte on the evening of Phedre, that I had not gone up 
and spoken to him, when I heard Mme. de Guermantes 
say to Mme. de Villeparisis: | 
“He is the only person I have any wish to know,” went 
on the Duchess, in whom one could always, as at the turn 
of a mental tide, see the flow of curiosity with regard te 
well-known intellectuals sweep over the ebb of her aristo- 
cratic snobbishness. “It would be such a pleasure.” 

‘The presence of Bergotte by my side, which it woul 
have been so easy for me to secure but which I © 
thought liable to give Mme. de Guermantes a bad im- 
pression of myself, would no doubt, on the contrary, nae 
had the result that she would have signalled to me to join 
her in her box, and would have nested me to bring the 
eminent writer, one day, to luncheon. 

“T gather that he didn’t behave very well, he was ol 
sented to M. de Cobourg, and never uttered a word te 
him,” said Mme. de Gace dwelling on this odd 
characteristic as she might have recounted that a China- 
man had blown his nose on a sheet of paper. “ He neve 
once said ‘ Monseigneur’ to him,” she added, with an ain 
of amusement at this detail, as important to her mind ag 
the refusal of a Protestant, during an audience with the 
Pope, to go on his knees before his Holiness. 

Interested by these idiosyncrasies of Bergotte, she did 
not, however, appear to consider them réprehensible, and 
seemed rather to find a certain merit in them, though she 
would have been put to it to say of what sort. Despite 
this unusual mode of appreciating Bergotte’s originality, 

288 \ 


~-————— . 


_--— 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


twas a fact which I was later on not to regard as wholly ) 
regligible that Mme. de Guermantes, ereatly to the sur- | 
rise of many of her friends, did consider Bergotte more, 
vitty than M. de Bréauté. Thus it is that such ieeeste 
‘ubversive, isolated, and yet after all just, are delivered 
a the world of fashion by those rare minds that are 
‘uperior to the rest.) And they sketch then the first rough | 
sutlines of the hierarchy of values as the next generation 
vill establish it, instead of abiding eternally by the old 
‘tandards. 

| The Comte d’Argencourt, Chargé d’Affaires at the 
Selgian Legation and a remote connexion of Mme. de 
Tilleparisis, came limping in, followed presently by two 
‘oung men, the Baron de Guermantes and H. H. the 
uc de Chateller-ult, whom Mme. de Guermantes greeted 
‘vith: “ How d’ye do, young Chatellerault,” in a careless 
‘one and without moving from her tuffet, for she was a 
‘reat friend of the young Duke’s mother, which had given 
fim a deep and lifelong respect for her. Tall, slender, 
vith golden hair and sunny complexions, thoroughly of 
he Guermantes type, these two young men looked like 
| condensation of the light of the spring evening which 
vas flooding the spacious room. Following a custom which 
vas the fashion at that time they laid their silk hats on 
he floor, by their feet. The historian of the Fronde 
hought that they were embarrassed, like a peasant com- 
8 into the mayor’s office and not knowing what to do 
th his hat. Feeling that he ought in charity to come to 
he rescue of the awkwardness and timidity which he 
‘scribed to them: 

' “No, no,” he said, “don’t leave them on the floor, 
ney’ll be trodden on.” 

I 289 s 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


A glance from the Baron de Guermantes, tilting the 
plane of his pupils, shot suddenly from them a wave of 
pure and piercing azure which froze the well-nica a 
historian. 

“What is that person’s name?” I was asked by the 
Baron, who had just been introduced to me by Mme. de 
Villeparisis. | 

“M. Pierre,” I whispered. f 

“ Pierre what?” | 

“Pierre: it’s a name, he’s a historian, a most dis- 
tinguished man.’ | 

ce eee You don’t say so.’ 

“No, it’s a new fashion with these young men to put 
their hats on the floor,” Mme. de Villeparisis explaingy | 
“I’m like you, I can never get used to it. Still, it’s better 
than my nephew Robert, who always leaves his in the 
hall. I tell him when I see him come in that he looks 
just like a clockmaker, and I ask him if he’s come to wit 
the clocks.” 

“You were speaking just now, Madame la Marquise 
of M. Molé’s hat; we shall soon be able, like Aristotle; tc 
compile a eho on hats,” said the historian of thi 
Fronde, somewhat reassured by Mme. de Villeparisis’ 
intervention, but in so faint a voice that no one but my| 
self overheard him. 

“She really is astonishing, the little Duchess,” sai 
M. d’Argencourt, pointing to Mme. de Guermantes whi 
was talking toG . Whenever there’s a famous man ii 
the room you’re sure to find him sitting with her. Evi 
dently that must be the lion of the party over there. if 
can’t always be M. de Borelli, of course, or M. Schlum 
berger or M. d’Avenel. But then it’s bound to be M 

290 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


Pierre Loti or M. Edmond Rostand. Yesterday evening 
vat the Doudeauvilles’, where by the way she was looking 
splendid in her emerald tiara and a pink dress with a 
long train, she had M. Deschanel on one side and the 
German Ambassador on the other: she was holding forth 
to them about China; the general public, at a respectful 
distance where they couldn’t hear what was being said, 
were wondering whether there wasn’t going to be war. 
Really, you’d have said she was a Queen, holding her 
circle.” 

Everyone had gathered round Mme. de Villeparisis to 

watch her painting. 
_ “Those flowers are a truly celestial pink,” said Legran- 
din, “I should say sky-pink. For there is such a thing as 
sky-pink just as there is sky-blue. But,” he lowered his 
woice in the hope that he would not be heard by anyone 
out the Marquise, “I think I shall still give my vote to 
the silky, living flesh tint of your rendering of them. You 
eave Pisanello and Van Huysun a long way behind, with 
their laborious, dead herbals.” 

An artist, however modest, is always willing to hear 
amself preferred to his rivals, and tries only to see that 
‘ustice is done them. ay 

“What makes you think that/is that they painted the 
Jowers of their period, which ait have now, but 


= ——_ 


—= 


they did it with great skill.” 
_* Ah! The flowers of their period! That is a most in- 
senious theory,” exclaimed Legrandin. 

“TI see you’re painting some fine cherry blossoms—or 
ire they mayflowers? ” began the historian of the Fronde, 
1ot without hesitation as to the flower, but with a note 
if confidence in his voice, for he was beginning to forget 


291 


a 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


the incident of the hats. 
“No; they’re apple blossom,” said the Duchesse dk 
Guermantes, addressing her aunt. 7 
“ Ah! I see you’re a good countrywoman like me; yot 
can tell one flower from another.” | 
“Why yes, so they are! But I thought the season fo 
apple blossom was over now,” said the historian, seekin 
wildly to cover his mistake. | 
“Oh dear, no; far from it, it’s not out yet; the tree 
won’t be in blossom for another fortnight, not for thre 
weeks perhaps,” said the librarian who, since he helpe 
with the management of Mme. de Villeparisis’s estate 
was better informed upon country matters. 
“ At least three weeks,” put in the Duchess; “evei 
round Paris, where they’re very far forward. Down 1 
Normandy, don’t you know, at his father’s place,” shi 
went on, pointing to the young Duc de Chatellerault 
“where they have some splendid apple trees close to th 
seashore, like a Japanese screen, they’re never really pinl 
until after the twentieth of May.” 
“TJ never see them,” said the young Duke, “ becaus 
they give me hay fever. Such a bore.” | 
“Hay fever? I never heard of that before,” said th 
historian. 
“It’s the fashionable complaint just now,” the libraria. 
informed him. 
“That all depends, you won’t get it at all, probably 
if it’s a good year for apples. You know Le Normand’ 
saying: ‘When it’s a good year for apples . . . ’,” putt 
M. d’Argencourt who, not being really French, was alway 
trying to give himself a Parisian air. 
“You're quite right,” Mme. de Villeparisis told he 
292 


THE GUERMANTES WAY | 


niece, “these are from the South. It was a florist who 
‘ent them round and asked me to accept them as a present. 
fou’re surprised, I dare say, Monsieur Valmére,” 
‘he turned to the librarian, “that a florist should make 
ae a present of apple blossom. Well, I may be an old 
yoman, but I’m not quite on the shelf yet, I have 
till a few friends,” she went on with a smile that 
aight have been taken as a sign of her simple nature 
mut meant rather, I could not help feeling, that she 
hought it effective to pride herself on the friendship 
ff a mere florist when she moved in such distinguished 
ircles. | 

Bloch rose and went over to look at the flowers which 
Ame. de Villeparisis was painting. 

“Never mind, Marquise,” said the historian, sitting 
own again, “even though we should have another of 
hose Revolutions which have stained so many pages of 
ur history with blood—and, upon my soul, in these days 
pe can never tell,” he added, with a circular and circum- 
pect glance, as though to make sure that there was no 
‘disaffected ” person in the room, though he had not the 
fast suspicion that there actually was, “with a talent 
‘ke yours and your five languages you would be certain 
get on all right.” The historian of the Fronde was feel- 
ag quite refreshed, for he had forgotten his insomnia. 
ut he suddenly remembered that he had not slept for 
ae last six nights, whereupon a crushing weariness, born 
f his mind, paralysed his limbs, made him bow his 
houlders, and his melancholy face began to droop like 
n old man’s. 

Bloch tried to express his admiration in an appropriate 
esture, but only succeeded in knocking over with his 


293 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


elbow the glass containing the spray of apple blossom; 
and all the water was spilled on the carpet. | 

“Really, you have the fingers of a fairy,” went on (tc 
the Marquise) the historian who, having his back turned 
to me at that moment, had not noticed Bloch’s clumsiness) 

But Bloch took this for a sneer at himself, and to covei| 
his shame in insolence retorted: “It’s not of the slightest 
importance; I’m not wet.” 

Mme. de Villeparisis rang the bell and a footman came 
to wipe the carpet and pick up the fragments of glass: 
She invited the two young men to her theatricals, an¢ 
also Mme. de Guermantes, with the injunction: | 

“Remember to tell Giséle and Berthe” (the Duchesses 
d’Auberjon and de Portefin) “to be here a little before 
two to help me,” as she might have told the hired waiter 
to come early to arrange the tables. | 

She treated her princely relatives, as she treated M. di 
Norpois, without any of the little courtesies which shi 
shewed to the historian, Cottard, Bloch and myself, an¢ 
they seemed to have no interest for her beyond the possi 
bility of serving them up as food for our social curiosity) 
This was because she knew that she need not put hersel 
out to entertain people for whom she was not a more 0 
less brilliant woman but the touchy old sister—who neede¢ 
and received tactful handling—of their father or uncle 
There would have been no object in her trying to shint 
before them, she could never have deceived them as t 
the strength and weakness of her position, for they knev 
(none so well) her whole history and respected the illus’ 

trious race from which she sprang./ But, above all, the! 
had ceased to be anything more for her than a dead stoel 
which would not bear fruit again, they would not let he’ 


294 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


now their new friends, or share their pleasures. She could I 
otain from them only their occasional presence, or the 
ossibility of speaking of them, at her five o’clock tea- 
arties as, later on, in her Memoirs, of which these parties 
ere only a sort of rehearsal, a preliminary reading aloud 
{ the manuscript before a selected audience. And the 
yeiety which all these noble kinsmen and kinswomen 
rved to interest, to dazzle, to enthral, the society of the 
jottards, of the Blochs, of the dramatists who were in 
1e public eye at the moment, of the historians of the 
ronde and such matters; it was in this society that there 
disted for Mme. de Villeparisis—failing that section of 
ae fashionable world which did not call upon her—the 
ovement, the novelty, all the entertainment of life, it 
as from people like these that she was able to derive 
rcial benefits (which made it well worth her while to 
t them meet, now and then, though without ever coming 
know her, the Duchesse de Guermantes), dinners with 
smarkable men whose work had interested her, a light 
dera or a pantomime staged complete by its author in her 
‘awing-room, boxes for interesting shows. Bloch got up 
' go. He had said aloud that the incident of the broken 
ower-glass was of no importance, but what he said to 
‘mself was different, more different still what he thought: 
If people can’t train their servants to put flowers where 
ey won't be knocked over and wet their guests and 
‘obably cut their hands, it’s much better not to go in for 
ich luxuries,” he muttered angrily. He was one of those 
ssceptible, highly strung persons who cannot bear to 
ink of themselves as having made a blunder which, 
ough they do not admit even to themselves that the 

lve made it, is enough to spoil their whole day. In a 


295 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST | 


black rage, he was just making up his mind never to g 
into society again. He had reached the point at whe 
some distraction was imperative. Fortunately in anothe 
minute Mme. de Villeparisis was to press him to stay 
Either because she was aware of the general feeling amon 
her friends, and had noticed the tide of anti-semitism the 
was beginning to rise, or simply from carelessness, sh 
had not introduced him to any of the people in the roon| 
He, however, being little used to society, felt bound be 
fore leaving the room to take leave of them all, to shal 
his manners, but without any friendliness; he lowere 
his head several times, buried his bearded chin in hi 
collar, scrutinised each of the party in turn through hi 
glasses with a cold, dissatisfied glare. But Mme. de Ville 
parisis stopped him; she had still to discuss with him th 
little play which was to be performed in her house, an 
also she did not wish him to leave before he had had tk 
pleasure of meeting M. de Norpois (whose failure to ay 
pear puzzled her), although as an inducement to Bloch 
introduction was quite superfluous, he having already di 
cided to persuade the two actresses whose names he ha 
mentioned to her to come and sing for nothing in th 
Marquise’s drawing-room, to enhance their own reput 
tions, at one of those parties to which all that was be 
and noblest in Europe thronged. He had even offere 
her, in addition, a tragic actress “ with pure eyes, fa 
as Hera,” who would recite lyrical prose with a sens 
of plastic beauty. But on hearing this lady’s nan 
Mme. de Villeparisis had declined, for it was that of Sain 

Loup’s mistress. 
“I have better news,” she murmured in my ear, “ 
really believe he’s quite cooled off now, and that bef. | 
296 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


very long they’il be parted—in spite of an officer who has 
layed an abominable part in the whole business,” she 
sdded. For Robert’s family were beginning to look with 
. deadly hatred on M. de Borodino, who had given him 
eave, at the hairdresser’s instance, to go to Bruges, and 
secused him of giving countenance to an infamous in- 
rigue. \“ It’s really too bad of him,” said Mme. de Ville- 
Becis with that virtuous accent common to all the Guer- 
antes, even the most depraved. “’Too, too bad,” she 
epeated, giving the word a trio of ‘t’s. One felt that she 
iad no doubt of the Prince’s being present at all their 
gies. But, as kindness of heart was the old lady’s domi- 
sant quality, her expression of frowning severity towards 
he horrible captain, whose name she articulated with an 
conical emphasis: “ The Prince de Borodino! ”_speak- 
ag as a woman for whom the Empire simply did not 
unt, melted into a gentle smile at myself with a me- 
hanical twitch of the eyelid indicating a vague under- 
tanding between us. 
_“Thave a great admiration for de Saint-Loup-en-Bray,” 
aid Bloch, “ dirty dog as he is, because he’s so extremely 
rell-bred. I have a great admiration, not for him but 
at well-bred people, they’re so rare,” he went on, with- 
t thinking, since he was himself so extremely ill-bred, 
rhat offence his words were giving. “I will give you an 
xample which I consider most striking of his perfect 
weeding. I met him once with a young gentleman just 
8 he was about to spring into his wheeléd chariot, after 
himself had buckled their splendid harness on a pair 
f steeds, whose mangers were heaped with oats and bar- 
'y, who had no need of the flashing whip to urge them on. 
le introduced us, but I did not catch the gentleman’s 


297 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


mame; one never does catch people’s names when one 
introduced to them,” he explained with a laugh, this bei 
one of his father’s witticisms. “De Saint-Loup-en-Br 
was perfectly calm, made no fuss about the young gentle 
man, seemed absolutely at his ease. Well, I found out, 
pure chance, a day or two later, that the young gentle 
man was the son of Sir Rufus Israels!” | 

The end of this story sounded less shocking than r 
preface, for it remained quite incomprehensible to every 
one in the room. The fact was that Sir Rufus Israel} 
who seemed to Bloch and his father an almost royal pe 
sonage before whom Saint-Loup ought to tremble, was : 
the eyes of the Guermantes world a foreign upstar 
tolerated in society, on whose friendship nobody wou! 
ever have dreamed of priding himself, far from it. 

“I learned this,” Bloch informed us, “from the pers¢ 
who holds Sir Rufus’s power of attorney; he is a frier 
of my father, and quite an extraordinary man. Oh, é 
absolutely wonderful individual,” he assured us with th; 
affirmative energy, that note of enthusiasm which o1 
puts only into those convictions that did not originate wi 
oneself. 

“Tell me,” Bloch went on, lowering his voice, to m+ 
self, “how much do you suppose Saint-Loup has? Ni 
that it matters to me in the least, you quite understan| 
don’t you. I’m interested from the Balzacian point | 
view. You don’t happen to know what it’s in, Fren 
stocks, foreign stocks, or land or what?” 

I could give him no information whatsoever. Sudden 
raising his voice, Bloch asked if he might open the wi+ 
dows, and without waiting for an answer, went across t) 
room to do so. Mme. de Villeparisis protested that } 

298. 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


rust not, that she had a cold. “ Of course, if it’s bad for 
ou! ” Bloch was downcast. “ But you can’t Say it’s not 
‘ot in here.” And breaking into a laugh he put into the 
aze with which he swept the room an appeal for support 
gainst Mme. de Villeparisis. He received none, from 
aese well-bred people. His blazing eyes, having failed to 
tduce any of the guests from Wee allegiance, faded with 
ssignation to their normal gravity of expression; he ac- 
nowledged his defeat with: “‘ What’s the temperature? 
eventy-two, at least, I should say. I’m not surprised. 
‘m simply dripping. And I have not, like the sage An- 
mor, son of the river Alpheus, the power to plunge 
ayself i in the paternal wave to stanch my sweat before 
lying my body in a bath of polished marble and anoint- 
ig my limbs with fragrant oils.” And with that need 
hich people feel to Reine for the use of others medical 
feories the application of which would be beneficial to 
aeir own health: “ Well, if you believe it’s good for you! 
‘must say, | think you’re quite wrong. It’s exactly what 
ives you your cold.” 

Bloch was overjoyed at the idea of meeting M. de Nor- 
Bie. He would like, he told us, to get him to talk about 
le Dreyfus case. “’There’s a mentality at work there 
‘hich I don’t altogether understand, and it would be 
uite sensational to get an interview out of this eminent 
iplomat,” he said in a tone of sarcasm, so as not to 
Dpear to be rating himself below the Ambassador. 
‘Mme. de Villeparisis was sorry that he had said this so 
ig but minded less when she saw that the librarian, 
those strong Nationalist views kept her, so to speak, on 
ash, was too far off to have overheard. She was more 
tocked to hear Bloch, led on by that demon of ill-breed- 


299 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


ing which made him permanently blind to the conse 
quences of what he said, inquiring, with a laugh at th 
paternal pleasantry: “ Haven’t I read a learned treatise 
by him in which he sets forth a string of irrefutable 
arguments to prove that the Japanese war was bound tc 
end in a Russian victory and a Japanese defeat? He’ 
fairly paralytic now, isn’t he? I’m sure he’s the old boy 
Pve seen taking aim at his chair before sliding acros 
the room to it, as if he was on wheels.” 

“Oh, dear, no! Not in the least like that! Just wait ¢ 
minute,” the Marquise went on, “I don’t know what he 
can be doing.” 

She rang the bell and, when the servant had appeared 
as she made no secret, and indeed liked to advertise th 
fact that her old friend spent the greater part of his tim 
in her house: “Go and tell M. de Norpois to come in/ 
she ordered him, “he is sorting some papers in mj 
library; he said he would be twenty minutes, and I’y 
been waiting now for an hour and three-quarters. He wil 
tell you about the Dreyfus case, anything you want t 
know,” she said gruffly to Bloch. “He doesn’t approv 
much of the way things are going.” 4 

For M. de Norpois was not on good terms with th 
Government of the day, and Mme. de Villeparisis, al 
though he had never taken the liberty of bringing any 
actual Ministers to her house (she still preserved all th 
unapproachable dignity of a great lady, and remained out 
side and above the political relations which he was oblige 
to cultivate), was kept well informed by him of every 
thing that went on. Then, too, the politicians of the dai 
would never have dared to ask M. de Norpois to intro 
duce them to Mme. de Villeparisis. But several of then 

300 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


iad gone down to see him at her house in the country 
yhen they needed his advice or help at critical conjunc- 
ures. One knew the address. One went to the house. 
Dne did not see its mistress. But at dinner that evening 
he would say: 
“T hear they’ve been down here bothering you. I trust 
hings are going better.” 

“You are not in a hurry?” she now asked Bloch. 

“No, not at all. I wanted to go because I am not very 
well; in fact there is some talk of my taking a cure at 
Vichy for my biliary ducts,” he explained, articulating the 
ast words with a fiendish irony. 
_ “Why, that’s where my nephew Chatellerault’s got to 
yo, you must fix it up together. Is he still in the room? 
de’s a nice boy, you know,” said Mme. de Villeparisis, 
and may quite well have meant what she said, feeling 
chat two people whom she knew had no reason not to be 
friends with each other. 
_ “Oh, I dare say he wouldn’t care about that—I don’t 
really know him—at least I barely know him. He is sit- 
ting over there,” stammered Bloch in an ecstasy of 
confusion. 
_ The butler could not have delivered his mistress’s mes- 
sage properly, for M. de Norpois, to make believe that he 
had just come in from the street, and had not yet seen 
his hostess, had picked up the first hat that he had found 
jn the hall, and came forward to kiss Mme. de Villeparisis’s 
hand with great ceremony, asking after her health with all 
the interest that people shew after a long separation. He 
was not aware that the Marquise had already destroyed 
any semblance of reality in this charade, which she cut 
short by taking M. de Norpois and Bloch into an adjoin- 
301 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


ing room. Bioch, who had observed all the courtesy tha! 
was being shewn to a person whom he had not yet dis, 
covered to be M. de Norpois, had said to me, trying t¢ 
seem at his ease: “Who is that old idiot?” Perhaps. 
too, all this bowing and scraping by M. de Norpois 
had really shocked the better element in Bloch’s nature 
the freer and more straightforward manners of a youngei 
generation, and he was partly sincere in condemning it ag 
absurd. However that might be, it ceased to appear ab. 
surd, and indeed delighted him the moment it was himself 
Bloch, to whom the salutations were addressed. 


, 


ceremonious, in relation to one particular man which, in 
the house of a distinguished woman, in contrast to the 
liberties that she takes with her other guests, marks that 
man out instantly as her lover. 
M. de Norpois drowned his azure gaze in his white| 
beard, bent his tall body deep down as though he were 
bowing before all the famous and (to him) imposing con- 
notations of the name Bloch, and murmured: “I am de- 
lighted . . .” whereat his young listener, moved, but feel- 
ing that the illustrious diplomat was going too far, has- 
tened to correct him, saying: “Not at all! On the con- 
trary, it is I who am delighted.” But this ceremony, which 
302 | 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


| 

M. de Norpois, in his friendship for Mme. de Villeparisis, 
repeated for the benefit of every fresh person that his old 
friend introduced to him, did not seem to her adequate to 
the deserts of Bloch, to whom she said: 

' “Just ask him anything you want to know; take him 
nto the other room if it’s more convenient; he will be de- 
lighted to talk to you. I think you wished to speak to him 
about the Dreyfus case,” she went on, no more consider- 
ing whether this would suit M. de Norpois than she 
would have thought of asking leave of the Duchesse de 
Montmorency’s portrait before having it lighted up for 
the historian, or of the tea before pouring it into a cup. 

' “You must speak loud,” she warned Bloch, “ he’s a lit- 
tle deaf, but he will tell you anything you want to know; 
he knew Bismarck very well, and Cavour. That is so, 
isn’t it;” she raised her voice, “you knew Bismarck 
well?” 

_ “Have you got anything on the stocks?” M. de Norpois 
asked me with a knowing air as he shook my hand warmly. 
I took the opportunity to relieve him politely of the hat 
which he had felt obliged to bring ceremonially into the 
room, for I saw that it was my own which he had inad- 
wertently taken. “ You shewed me a somewhat laboured 
little thing in which you went in for a good deal of hair- 
splitting. I gave you my opinion quite frankly; what you 
had written was literally not worth the trouble of putting 
it on paper. Are you thinking of letting us have anything 
else? You were greatly smitten with Bergotte, if I re- 
member rightly.” “You're not to say anything against 
Bergotte,” put in the Duchess. “I don’t dispute his talent 
as a painter; no one would, Duchess. He understands all 
about etching, if not brush-work on a large scale like 


393 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


M. Cherbuhez. But it seems to me that in these days we 
have a tendency to confuse the arts, and forget that the 
novelist’s business is rather to weave a plot and edify his 
readers than to fiddle away at producing a frontispiec 
or tailpiece in drypoint. I shall be seeing your father on 
Sunday at our good friend A. J.’s,” he went on, turning 
again to myself. 

I had hoped for a moment, when I saw him talking to 
Mme. de Guermantes, that he would perhaps afford me, 
for getting myself asked to her house, the help he had 
refused me for getting to Mme. Swann’s. “ Another of 
my great favourites,” I told him, “is Elstir. It seems the 
Duchesse de Guermantes has some wonderful examples 
of his work, particularly that admirable Bunch of Rad- 
ishes which I remember at the Exhibition and should so 
much like to see again; what a masterpiece that is!” And 
indeed, if I had been a prominent person and had been 
asked to state what picture I liked best, I should have 
named this Bunch of Radishes. “A masterpiece?” cried 
M. de Norpois with a surprised and reproachful air. “ It 
makes no pretence of being even a picture, it is merely a 
sketch.” (He was right.) “ If you label a clever little thing 
of that sort ‘masterpiece’, what have you got to say 
about Hébert’s Virgin or Dagnan-Bouveret? ” 

“I heard you refusing to let him bring Robert’s 
woman,” said Mme. de Guermantes to her aunt, after 
Bloch had taken the Ambassador aside. “I don’t think 
you'll miss much, she’s a perfect horror, as you know, 
without a vestige of talent, and besides she’s grotesquely 
ugly.” 

“Do you mean to say, you know her, Duchess?” asked 
M. d’Argencourt. 

304 4 


bia Se Fz 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


“Yes, didn’t you know that she performed in my house 
vefore the whole of Paris, not that that’s anything for me 
o be proud of,” explained Mme. de Guermantes with a 
augh, glad nevertheless, since the actress was under dis- 
ussion, to let it be known that she herself had had the 
Ist fruits of 2 foolishness. “ Hallo, I suppose I ought 
‘0 be going now,” she added, without moving. 
| She had just seen her husband enter the room, and 
hese words were an allusion to the absurdity of their ap- 
vearing to be paying a call together, like a newly married 
ouple, rather than to the often strained relations that 
xisted between her and the enormous fellow she had 
aarried, who, despite his increasing years, still led the 
fe of a gay bachelor. Ranging over the considerable 
arty that was gathered round the tea-table the genial, 
ynical gaze—dazzled a little by the brightness of the set- 
ng sun—of the little round pupils lodged in the exact 
entre of his eyes, like the “bulls” which the excellent 
aarksman that he was could always hit with such per- 
ect aim and precision, the Duke came forward with a 
ewildered cautious slowness as though, alarmed by so 
rilliant a gathering, he was afraid of treading on ladies’ 
irts and interrupting conversations. A permanent smile 
Betts a “Good King of Yvetot ”’—slightly pom- 
s, a half-open hand floating like a shark’s fin by 
ls b side, which he allowed to be vaguely clasped by 
is old friends and by the strangers who were intro- 
uced to him, enabled him, without his having to make 
single movement, or to cee his genial, lazy, royal 
Togress, to reward the assiduity of them all by simply 
durmuring: “ How do, my boy; how do, my dear friend; 
harmed, Monsieur Bloch; how do, Argencourt;” and, 
I 305 T 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


on coming to myself, who was the most highly favoured 
when he had been told my name: “ How do, my youn 
neighbour, how’s your father? What a splendid fellow he 
is!”” He made no great demonstration except to Mme. de 
Villeparisis, who gave him good-day with a nod of he 
head, drawing one hand from a pocket of her little apron 

Being formidably rich in a world where everyone wa: 
steadily growing poorer, and having secured the permanen; 
attachment to his person of the idea of this enormous for 
tune, he displayed all the vanity of the great noblemar 
reinforced by that of the man of means, the refinement anc 
breeding of the former just managing to control the lat 
ter’s self-sufficiency. One could understand, moreover 
that his success with women, which made his wife so un: 
happy, was not due merely to his name and fortune, for 
he was still extremely good looking, and his profile re. 
tained the purity, the firmness of outline of a Gree 
god’s. 

“Do you mean to tell me she performed in you 
house?” M. d’Argencourt asked the Duchess. 

“Well, don’t you see, she came to recite, with a bunel 
of lilies in her hand, and more lilies on her dwess.”? Mme 
de Guermantes shared her aunt’s affectation of pronoune 
ing certain words in an exceedingly rustic fashion, but 
never rolled her ‘r’s like Mme. de Villeparisis. 

Before M. de Norpois, under constraint from his hostess 
had taken Bloch into the little recess where they coule 
talk more freely, I went up to the old diplomat for 
moment and put in a word about my father’s Academic 
chair. He tried first of all to postpone the conversation t¢ 
another day. I pointed out that I was going to Balbec 
“What? Going again to Balbec? Why, you’re a regula 

306 | 


TITHE GUERMANTES WAY 


ybe-trotter.” He listened to what I had to say. At the 
me of Leroy-Beaulieu, he looked at me suspiciously. I 
njectured that he had perhaps said something dis- 
raging to M. Leroy-Beaulieu about my father and was 
raid of the economist’s having repeated it to him. All 
once he seemed animated by a positive affection for 
7 father. And after one of those opening hesitations 
t of which suddenly a word explodes as though in spite 
‘the speaker, whose irresistible conviction prevails over 
; half-hearted efforts at silence: “ No, no,” he said to 
* with emotion, “your father must not stand. In his 
m interest he must not; it is not fair to himself; he owes 
certain respect to his own really great merits, which 
uld be compromised by such an adventure. He is too 
xa man for that. If he should be elected, he will have 
srything to lose and nothing to gain. He is not an orator, 
ank heaven. And that is the one thing that counts with 
dear colleagues, even if you only talk platitudes. Your 
her has an important goal in life; he should march 
aight ahead towards it, and not allow himself to turn 
ide to beat bushes, even the bushes (more thorny for 
it matter than flowery) of the grove of Academe. Be- 
es, he would not get many votes. The Academy likes 
‘keep a postulant waiting for some time before taking 
hn to its bosom. For the present, there is nothing to be 
ne. Later on, I don’t say. But he must wait until the 
ciety itself comes in quest of him. It makes a practice, 
ta very fortunate practice, a fetish rather, of the fara 
$e of our friends across the Alps. Leroy-Beaulieu 
dke to me about all this in a way I did not at all like, 
rointed out to him, a little sharply perhaps, that a man 
sustomed as he is to dealing with colonial imports and 


397 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


metals could not be expected to understand the part play! 
by the imponderables, as Bismarck used to say. Bi 
whatever happens, your father must on no account p 
himself forward as a candidate. Principis obsta. H 
friends would find themselves placed in a delicate positi 
if he suddenly called upon them for their votes. Indeec 
he broke forth, with an air of candour, fixing his bl 
eyes on my face, “I am going to say a thing that you w 
be surprised to hear coming from me, who am so fo 
of your father. Well, simply because I am fond of hi 
(we are known as the inseparables—Arcades ambo), sit 
ply because I know the immense service that he can st 
render to his country, the reefs from which he can st 
her if he remains at the helm; out of affection, out of hi 
regard for him, out of patriotism, I should not vote f 
him. I fancy, moreover, that I have given him to und 
stand that I should not.” (I seemed to discern in his ey 
the stern Assyrian profile of Leroy-Beaulieu.) “So tk 
to give him my vote now would be a sort of recantati 
on my part.” M. de Norpois repeatedly dismissed 
brother Academicians as old fossils. Other reasons apa 
every member of a club or academy likes to ascribe 
his fellow members the type of character that is the dir 
converse of his own, less for the advantage of being al 
to say: “Ah! If it only rested with me!” than for t 
satisfaction of making the election which he himself t 
managed to secure seem more difficult, a greater disti 
tion. “I may tell you,” he concluded, “that in the b 
interests of you all, I should prefer to see your fatl 
triumphantly elected in ten or fifteen years’ time.” Wot 
which I assumed to have been dictated if not by jealou 
at any rate by an utter lack of any willingness to obli 

308 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


id which later on I was to recall when the course of 
vents had given them a different meaning. 

“You haven’t thought of giving the Institute an address 
1 the price of bread during the Fronde, I suppose,” the 
storian of that movement timidly inquired of M. de 
orpois. “ You could make a considerable success of a 
bject like that,” (which was to say, “ you would give me 
colossal advertisement,”) he added, smiling at the Am- 
issador pusillanimously, but with a warmth of feeling 
aich made him raise his eyelids and expose a double 
izon of eye. I seemed to have seen this look before, 
id yet I had met the historian for the first time this 
ternoon. Suddenly I remembered having seen the same 
pression in the eyes of a Brazilian doctor who claimed 
‘be able to cure choking fits of the kind from which I 
ffered by some absurd inhalation of the essential oils 
plants. When, in the hope that he would pay more 
tention to my case, I had told him that I knew Pro- 
ssor Cottard, he had replied, as though speaking in 
ittard’s interest: “ Now this treatment of mine, if you 
sre to tell him about it, would give him the material for 
most sensational paper for the Academy of Medicine! ” 
> had not ventured to press the matter but had stood 
zing at me with the same air of interrogation, timid, 
Xious, appealing, which it had just puzzled me to see 
(the face of the historian of the Fronde. Obviously the 
© men were not acquainted and had little or nothing © 
‘common, but psychological like physical laws have a 
wre or less general application. And the requisite con- 
dons are the same; an identical expression lights the 
es of different human animals, as a single sunrise 
hts different places, a long way apart, which have no 


309 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


connexion with one another. I did not hear the A 
bassador’s reply, for the whole party, with a good deal 
noise, had again gathered round Mme. de Villeparisis 
watch her at work. 
“You know who’ we’re talking about, Basin?” 
Duchess asked her husband. | 

“I can make a pretty good guess,” said the Duke. 
“Ah! As an actress she’s not, I’m afraid, in what ¢ 
would call the great tradition.” 
“You can’t imagine,” went on Mme. de Guerman‘ 
to M. d’Argencourt, “anything more ridiculous.” 
“In fact, it was drolatic,” put in M. de Guermé 
tes, whose odd vocabulary enabled people in society { 
declare that he was no fool and literary people, at te 
same time, to regard him, as a complete imbecile. 
“What I fail to understand,” resumed the Duche! 
“is how in the world Robert ever came to fall in le 
with her. Oh, of course I know one mustn’t discuss th 
sort of thing,” she added, with the charming pout of} 
philosopher and sentimentalist whose last illusion h 
long been shattered. “I know that anybody may fall: 
love with anybody else. And,” she went on, for, thout 
she might still laugh at modern literature, it, either 
its dissemination through the popular press or else in t: 
course of conversation, had begun to percolate into ht 
mind, “that is the really nice thing about love, becat: 
it’s what makes it so ‘ mysterious ’.” 
“ Mysterious! Oh, I must confess, cousin, that’s a It 
beyond me,” said the Comte d’Argencourt. 
“Oh dear, yes, it’s a very mysterious thing, love,” ¢ 
clared the Duchess, with the sweet smile of a goc 
natured woman of the world, but also with the root! 
310 ul 


eee 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


‘nyiction with which a Wagnerian assures a bored gentle- 
van from the Club that there is something more than just 
bise in the Walkiire. After all, one never does know 
hat makes one person fall in love with another; it may 
st be at all what we think,” she added with a smile, re- 
udiating at once by this interpretation the idea she had 
i suggested. “ After all, one never knows anything, does 
ae?” she concluded with an air of weary sSynuelion 
Besides, one understands, doesn’t one; one simply can’t 
«plain other people’s choices in love.” 
, But having laid down this principle she proceeded at 
ace to abandon it and to criticise Saint-Loup’ s choice. 
| “ All the same, don’t you know, it is amazing to me that 
‘man can find any attraction in a person who's simply 
ll 9 
Bloch, hearing Saint-Loup’ s name mentioned and gath- 
ing that he was in Paris, promptly made a remark about 
a so outrageous that averybody was shocked. He was 
eginning to nourish hatreds, and one felt that he would 
| ‘op at nothing to gratify aa Once he had established 
te principle that he himself was of great moral worth 
nd that the sort of people who frequented La Boulie (an 
thletic club which he supposed to be highly fashionable) 
served penal servitude, every blow he could get in 
gainst them seemed to him praiseworthy. He went so 
a once as to speak of a lawsuit which he was anxious 
» bring against one of his La Boulie friends. In the 
| of the trial he proposed to give certain evidence 
which would be entirely untrue, though the defendant 
‘ould be unable to impugn his veracity. In this way 
‘loch (who, incidentally, never put his plan into action) 
ounted on baffling and infuriating his antagonist. What 
311 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


harm could there be in that, since he whom he sought 
injure was a man who thought only of doing the “ rig 
thing”, a La Boulie man, and against people like that a 
weapon was justified, especially in the hands of a Sai 
such as Bloch himself. | 

“TI say, though, what about Swann?” objected 
d’Argencourt, who having at last succeeded in und 
standing the point of his cousin’s speech, was impress 
by her accuracy of observation, and was racking | 
brains for instances of men who had fallen in love w; 
women in whom he himself had seen no attraction. 

“Oh, but Swann’s case was quite different,” t 
Duchess protested. “It was a great surprise, I adm 
because she’s just a well-meaning idiot, but she was ney 
silly, and she was at one time good looking.” | 

“Oh, oh!” muttered Mme. de Villeparisis. 

“You never thought so? Surely, she had some char 
ing points, very fine eyes, good hair, she used to dre: 
and does still dress wonderfully. Nowadays, I quite agr 
she’s horrible, but she has been a lovely woman in h 
time. Not that that made me any less sorry when Charl 
married her, because it was so unnecessary.” The Duche 
had not intended to say anything out of the common, b 
as M. d’Argencourt began to laugh she repeated the} 
last words—either because she thought them amusing 
because she thought it nice of him to laugh—and look 
up at him with a coaxing smile, to add the enchantme 
of her femininity to that of her wit. She went on: “ Ye 
really, it wasn’t worth the trouble, was it; still, after a) 
she did have some charm and I can quite understand an 
body’s falling in love with her, but if you saw Robert 
girl, I assure you, you’ld simply die of laughter. Oh, 


312 | 


j 


ae 


eT. 


: THE GUERMANTES WAY 


now somebody’s going to quote Augier at me: ‘ What 
aatters the bottle so long as one gets drunk?’ Well, 
sobert may have got drunk, all right, but he certainly 
lasn’t shewn much taste in his choice of a bottle! First 
Fall, would you believe that she actually expected me to 
jt up a staircase right in the middle of my drawing-room. 
oh, a mere nothing—what?—and she announced that she 
vas going to lie flat on her stomach on the steps. And 
ien, if you’d heard the things she recited, I only remem- 
jer one scene, but I’m sure nobody could i eta gine any- 
jung like it: it was called the Seven Princesses.” 

| “Seven Princesses! Dear, dear, what a snob she must 
‘le cried M. d’Argencourt. ne But wait a minute, why, 
hk know the whole play. The author sent a copy to the 
‘ing, who couldn’t understand a word of it and called 
ime to Ee it to him. 

“Tt isn’t by any chance, from the Sar Peladan?” asked 
ie historian of the Fronde, meaning to make a subtle and 
)pical allusion, but in so low a tone that his question 
lassed unnoticed. . 
| *So you know the Seven Princesses, do you?” replied 
le Duchess. “I congratulate you! I only know one, but 
he’s quite enough; I have no wish to make «he ac- 
jaaintance of the other six. If they are all like the one 
ve seen! ” 

“What a goose!” I thought to myself. Irritated by the 
‘ldness of her greeting, I found a sort of bitter satisfac- 
fon i in this proof of et complete inability to understand 
laeterlinck. “To think that’s the woman I walk miles 
ery morning to see. Really, I’m too kind. Well, it’s my 
‘tl now not to want to see her.” Thus I reasoned with 
yself; but my words ran counter to my thoughts; they 


: 
: 313 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


were purely conversational words such as we say to ow 
selves at those moments when, too much excited to r) 
main quietly alone, we feel the need, for want of anti} 
listener, to talk to ourselves, without meaning what y¥| 
say, as we talk to a stranger. 
~ “T can’t tell you what it was like,” the Duchess wel 
on; “you simply couldn’t help laughing. Not that anyol) 
tried; rather the other way, I’m sorry to say, for tl 


D 


young person was not at all pleased and Robert has nev! 
really forgiven me. Though I can’t say I’m sorry, actuall 
because if it had been a success the lady would pera) 
have come again, and I don’t quite see Marie-Aynard a) 
proving of that.” | 

This was the name given in the family to Robert’s mothe 
Mme. de Marsantes, the widow of Aynard de Saint-Lou 
to distinguish her from her cousin, the Princesse de Gue 
mantes-Baviére, also a Marie, to whose Christian nan! 
her nephews and cousins and brothers-in-law added, | 
avoid confusion, either that of her husband or another | 
her own, making her Marie-Gilbert or Marie-Hedwige. | 

“To begin with, there was a sort of rehearsal the nig) 
before, which was a wonderful affair!” went on Mme. « 
Guermantes in ironical pursuit of her theme. “ Ju, 
imagine, she uttered a sentence, no, not so much, not | 
quarter of a sentence, and then she stopped; she didn 
open her mouth—I’m not exaggerating—for a good fix 
minutes.” 

“Oh, I say,” cried M. d’Argencourt. | 

“With the utmost politeness I took the liberty of hin 
ing to her that this might seem a little unusual. And sk. 
said—I give you her actual words—‘ One ought alway. 
to repeat a thing as though one were just composing it ont 


314 ‘ 


= ae me 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


aif? When you think of it, that really is monumental.” 

*“But I understood she wasn’t at all bad at reciting 

etry,” said one of the two young men. 

“ She hasn’t the ghost of a notion what poetry is,’ 

: splied Mme. de Guermantes. “ However, I didn’t need to 

sten to her to tell that. It was quite enough to see her 

ome in with her lilies. I knew at once that she couldn’t 

ave any talent when I saw those lilies!” 

Everybody laughed. 

““T hope, my dear aunt, you aren’t angry with me, over 

y little joke the other day about the Queen of Sweden. 

ie come to ask your forgiveness.” 

“Oh, no, I’m not at all angry, I even give you leave to 

it at 3g table, if you're hungry—Come along, M. Val- 

‘ere, you’re the daughter of the house,” Mme. de Ville- 

ifisis went on to the librarian, repeating a time-honoured 

‘easantry. 

M. de Guermantes sat upright in the armchair in which 
: had come to anchor, his hat on the carpet by his side, 

id examined with a satisfied smile the plate of little 
kes that was being held out to him. 

be Why, certainly, now that I am beginning to feel at 

ome in this distinguished company, I will take a sponge- 

ke; they look excellent.” 

“This gentleman makes you an admirable daughter,” 

mmented M. d’Argencourt, whom the spirit of imitation 

jompted to keep Mme. de Villeparisis’s little joke in 

‘culation. 

‘The librarian handed the plate of cakes to the historian 
the Fronde. 

“You perform your functions admirably,” said the 

‘ter, startled into speech, and hoping also to win the 


315 


la. 
he 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


sympathy of the crowd. At the same time he cast 
covert glance of connivance at those who had anticipate 
him. 

“Tell me, my dear aunt,” M. de Guermantes inquir 
of Mme. de Villeparisis, “ who was that rather good-lool 
ing man who was going out just now as Icamein? I mu; 
know him, because he gave me a sweeping bow, but 
couldn’t place him at all; you know I never can rememby 
names, it’s such a nuisance,” he added, in a tone of sati 
faction. 

“M. Legrandin.” 

“Oh, but Oriane has a cousin whose mother, if I’m nm 
mistaken, was a Grandin. Yes, I remember quite wel 
she was a Grandin de l’Epervier.” | 

“No,” replied Mme. de Villeparisis, “no relation ; 
all. These are plain Grandins. Grandins of nothing at 
But they’ld be only too glad to be Grandins of anythi 
you chose to name. This one has a sister called Mme. ¢ 
Cambremer.” 

“Why, Basin, you know quite well who’ my a 
means,” cried the Duchess indignantly, “ He’s the broth 
of that great graminivorous creature you had the wei 
idea of sending to call on me the other day. She stayed 
solid hour; I thought I should go mad. But I began b 
thinking it was she who was mad when I saw a person 
didn’t know come browsing into the room looking exac 
like a cow.” } 

“Listen, Oriane; she asked me what afternoon yo 
were at home; I couldn’t very well be rude to her; an 
besides, you do exaggerate so, she’s not in the least like 
cow,” he added in a plaintive tone, though not without 
quick smiling glance at the audience. y 

316 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


He knew that his wife’s lively wit needed the stimulus 
f contradiction, the contradiction of common sense which 
yrotests that one cannot (for instance) mistake a woman 
eriously for a cow; by this process Mme. de Guermantes, 
inlarging upon her original idea, had been inspired to pro- 
luce many of her most brilliant sayings. And the Duke in 
us innocent fashion helped her, without seeming to do so, 
o bring off her effects like, in a railway carriage, thé unac- 
nowledged partner of the three-card player. 

“T admit she doesn’t look like a cow, she looks like a 
lozen,” exclaimed Mme. de Guermantes. “I assure you, 
. didn’t know what to do when I saw a herd of cattle 
ome marching into my drawing-room in a hat and heard 
hem ask me how I was. I had half a mind to say: 
Please, herd of cattle, you must be making a mistake, 
rou can’t possibly know me, because you’re a herd of 
attle,’ but after racking my brains over her I came to the 
‘onclusion that your Cambremer woman must be the 
nianta Dorothea, who had said she was coming to see me 
me day, and is rather bovine also, so that I was just on 
he point of saying: ‘Your Royal Highness’ and using 
he third person to a herd of cattle. The cut of her dewlap 
minded me rather, too, of the Queen of Sweden. But 
his massed attack had been prepared for by long range 
tillery fire, according to all the rules of war. For I don’t 
now how long before, I was bombarded with her cards; I 
ised to find them lying about all over the house, on all! the 
ables and chairs, like prospectuses. I couldn’t think what 
hey were supposed to be advertising. You saw nothing in 
he house but ‘Marquis et Marquise de Cambremer’ 
with some address or other which I’ve forgotten; you may 
’e quite sure nothing will ever take me there.” 


oe 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


“ But it’s a great distinction to look like a Queen,” said 
the historian of the Fronde. 

“Gad, sir, Kings and Queens, in these days, don’t’ 
amount to much,” said M, de Guermantes, partly because 
he liked to be thought broad-minded and modern, and 
also so as to not to seem to attach any importance to his 
own royal friendships, which he valued highly. 

Bloch and M. de Norpois had returned from the other 
room and came towards us. 

“Well, sir,” asked Mme. de Villeparisis, “have you 
been talking to him about the Dreyfus case? ” 

M. de Norpois raised his eyes to the ceiling, but with a 
smile, as though calling on heaven to witness the mon- 
strosity of the caprices to which his Dulcinea compelled 
him to submit. Nevertheless he spoke to Bloch with great 
affability of the terrible, perhaps fatal period through which 
France was passing. As this presumably meant that M. de 
Norpois (to whom Bloch had confessed his belief in the in- 
nocence of Dreyfus) was an ardent anti-Dreyfusard, the 
Ambassador’s geniality, his air of tacit admission that his 
listener was in the right, of never doubting that they were’ 
both of the same opinion, of being prepared to join forces 
with him to overthrow the Government, flattered Bloch’s 
vanity and aroused his curiosity. What were the important 
points which M. de Norpois never specified but on which he 
seemed implicitly to affirm that he was in agreement with 
Bloch; what opinion, then, did he hold of the case, that 
could bring them together? Bloch was all the more aston- 
ished at the mysterious unanimity which seemed to exist 
between him and M. de Norpois, in that it was not con- 
fined to politics, Mme. de Villeparisis having spoken at 
some length to M. de Norpois of Bloch’s literary work. — 

318 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


“You are not of your age,” the former Ambassador 


old him, “and I congratulate you upon that. You are 
ot of this age in which disinterested work no longer 
xxists, in which writers offer the public nothing but ob- 
cenities or ineptitudes. Efforts such as yours ought to 
e encouraged, and would be, if we had a Government.” 
_ Bloch was flattered by this picture of himself swimming 
lone amid a universal shipwreck. But here again he 
rould have been glad of details, would have liked to 
now what were the ineptitudes to which M. de Norpois 
eferred. Bloch had the feeling that he was working along 
ae same lines as plenty of others; he had never supposed 
imself to be so exceptional. He returned to the Dreyfus 
ase, but did not succeed in elucidating M. de Norpois’s 
wn views. He tried to induce him to speak of the officers 
those names were appearing constantly i in the newspapers 
t that time; they aroused more curiosity than the poli- 
cians who were involved also, because they were not, like 
he politicians, well known already, but, wearing a special 
arb, emerging from the obscurity of a different kind of 
fe and a religiously guarded silence, simply stood up 
nd spoke and disappeared again, like Lohengrin landing 
rom a skiff drawn by a swan. Bloch had been able, thanks 
2a Nationalist lawyer of his acquaintance, to secure ad- 
ussion to several hearings of the Zola trial. He would 
rive there in the morning and stay until the court rose, 
mth a packet of sandwiches and a flask of coffee, as 
nough for the final examination for a degree, and this 
hange of routine stimulating a nervous excitement which 
ne coffee and the emotional interest of the trial worked 
p to a climax, he would come out so enamoured of every- 
hing that had happened in court that, in the evening, as 


319 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


he sat at home, he would long to immerse himself agai, 
in that beautiful dream and would hurry out, to a resta 
rant frequented by both parties, in search of friends wit) 
whom he would go over interminably the whole of th 
day’s proceedings, and make up, by a supper ordered i 
an imperious tone which gave him the illusion of powel 
for the hunger and exhaustion of a day begun so earl) 
and unbroken by any interval for luncheon.| The huma, 
mind, hovering perpetually between the two planes ¢ 
experience and imagination, seeks to fathom the ideal lif! 
of the people it knows and to know the people whose lif 
it has had to imagine. To Bloch’s questions M. de Nor 
pois replied: | 

“There are two officers involved in the case now bein, 
tried of whom I remember hearing some time ago from | 
man in whose judgment I felt great confidence, and wh 
praised them both highly—I mean M. de Miribel. The; 
are Lieutenant-Colonel Henry and Lieutenant-Colone 
Picquart.” | 

“But,” exclaimed Bloch, “the divine Athena, daughte. 
of Zeus, has put in the mind of one the opposite of wha 
is in the mind of the other. And they are fighting agains’ 
one another like two lions. Colonel Picquart had a splen 
did position in the Army, but his Moira has led him to thi 
side that was not rightly his. The sword of the Nationalist 
will carve his tender flesh, and he will be cast out as foo| 
for the beasts of prey and the birds that wax fat upot| 
the bodies of men.” | 

M. de Norpois made no reply. ‘ 

“What are those two palavering about over there?? 
M. de Guermantes asked Mme. de Villeparisis, indicatins 
M. de Norpois and Bloch. fe 


320 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


“The Dreyfus case.” 

“The devil they are. By the way, do you know who is 
red-hot supporter of Dreyfus? I give you a thousand 
uesses. My nephew Robert! I can tell you that, at the 
ockey, when they heard of his goings on, there was a fine 
athering of the clans, a regular hue and cry. And as 
e’s coming up for election next week . . .” 

‘“Of course,” broke in the Duchess, if they’re all like 
lilbert, who keeps on saying that all the Jews ought to 
ls sent back to Jerusalem.” 

“ Indeed; then the Prince de Guermantes is quite of my 
‘ay of thinking,” put in M. d’Argencourt. 

The Duke made a show of his wife, but did not love 
'r. Extremely self-centred, he hated to be interrupted, 
asides he was in the habit, at home, of treating her 
tutally. Convulsed with the twofold rage of a bad hus- 
ind when his wife speaks to him, and a good talker when 
24s not listened to, he stopped short and transfixed the 
uchess with a glare which made everyone feel un- 
mifortable. 

“What makes you think we want to hear about Gilbert 
d Jerusalem? It’s nothing to do with that. But,” he 
mt on in a gentler tone, “ you will agree that if one of 
t family were to be pilled at the Jockey, especially 
dbert, whose father was chairman for ten years, it would 
| 4 pretty serious matter. What can you expect, my 
‘ar, it’s got em on the raw, those fellows; they’re all 
er it. I don’t blame them, either; personally, you know 
it I have no racial prejudice, all that sort of thing seems 
Me out of date, and I do claim to move with the times; 
t damn it all, when one goes by the name of ‘ Marquis 
‘Saint-Loup’ one isn’t a Dreyfusard; what more can 
321 U 


| 
| 
| 
| 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


29 


I say! 

M. de Guermantes uttered the words: “When on 
goes by the name of Marquis de Saint-Loup,” with som 
emphasis. He knew very well that it was a far greate 
thing to go by that of Duc de Guermantes. But if his sell 
esteem had a tendency to exaggerate if anything th 
superiority of the title Duc de Guermantes over all other 
it was perhaps not so much the rules of good taste as th 
laws of imagination that urged him thus to attenuate 1 
Each of us sees in the brightest colours what he sees at 
distance, what he sees in other people. For the generi 
laws which govern perspective in imagination apply ju 
as much to dukes as to ordinary mortals. And not on 
the laws of imagination, but those of speech. Now, eith¢ 
of two laws of speech may apply here, one being thi 
which makes us express ourselves like others of our met 
tal category and not of our caste. Under this law M. ¢ 
Guermantes might be, in his choice of expressions, eve 
when he wished to talk about the nobility, indebted to tl 
humblest little tradesman, who would have said: “‘ Wh¢ 
one goes by the name of Duc de Guermantes,” where 
an educated man, a Swann, a Legrandin would not ha 
said it. A duke may write novels worthy of a grocer, evé 
about life in high society, titles and pedigrees being of 1 
help to him there, and the epithet “ aristocratic” 
earned by the writings of a plebeian. Who had been, 
this instance, the inferior from whom M. de Guermant 
had picked up “when one goes by the name”, he hi 
probably not the least idea. But another law of spee 
is that, from time to time, as there appear and then vani 
diseases of which nothing more is ever heard, there cor 
into being, no one knows how, spontaneously perhaps 

322 


t 
! 


f 


ie 


me 


—- = 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


yy an accident like that which introduced into France a 
certain weed from America, the seeds of which, caught 
‘in the wool of a travelling rug, fell on a railway embank- 
nent, forms of speech which one hears in the same decade 
m the lips of people who have not in any way combined 
ogether to use them. So, just as in a certain year I heard 
3loch say, referring to himself, that “the most charming 
seople, the most brilliant, the best known, the most ex- 
sive had discovered that there was only one man in 
’aris whom they felt to be intelligent, pleasant, whom 
ny could not do without—namely Bloch,” and heard 
he same phrase used by countless other young men who 
id not know him and varied it only by substituting their 
wn names for his, so I was often to hear this “when 
ne goes by the name”, 

“What can one expect,” the Duke went on, “ with the 
wfluence he’s come under; it’s easy to understand.” 
“Still it is rather comic,” suggested the Duchess, “ when 
ou think of his mother’s attitude, how she bores us to 
tars with her Patrie Francaise, morning, noon and night.” 
“Yes, but there’s not only his mother to be thought of, 
du can’t humbug us like that. There’s a damsel, too, a 
y-by-night of the worst type; she has far more influence 
ver him than his mother, and she happens to be a com- 
itriot of Master Dreyfus. She has passed on her state of 
ind to Robert.” 

You may not have heard, Duke, that there is a new 
ord to describe that sort of mind,” said the librarian, 
ho was Secretary to the Antirevisionist Committee. 
They say ‘ mentality ’, It means exactly the same thing, 
wt it has this advantage that nobody knows what 
wre talking about. It is the very latest expression 


323 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST | 
just now, the ‘last word’ as people say.” Meanwhile 
having heard Bloch’s name, he was watching him questio 
M. de Norpois with misgivings which aroused other) 
as strong though of a different order in the Mari 
Trembling before the librarian, and always acting th 
anti-Dreyfusard in his presence, she dreaded what hy 
would say were he to find out that she had asked to he, 
house a Jew more or less affiliated to the “ Syndicate” 

“Indeed,” said the Duke, “‘ mentality’, you say; ~ 
must make a note of that; I shall use it some day.” Thi 
was no figure of speech, the Duke having a little pocket 
book filled with such “ references ” which he used to con 
sult before dinner-parties. “I like ‘ mentality’. There ar 
a lot of new words like that which people suddenly ‘ 
using, but they never last. I read somewhere the othe 
day that some writer was ‘ talentuous’. You may perhap, 
know what it means; I don’t. And since then I’ve neve 
come across the word again.” 

“But ‘mentality’ is more widely used than ‘ talentu| 
ous ’,” the historian of the Fronde made his way into t 
conversation. “I am on a Committee at the Ministry ¢ 
Education at which I have heard it used several times, a 
well as at my Club, the Volney, and indeed at dinner a 
M. Emile Ollivier’s.” | 

“T, who have not the honour to belong to the Ministr| 
of Education,” replied the Duke with a feigned humili l 
but with a vanity so intense that his lips could not refrai 
from curving in a smile, nor his eyes from casting roun) 
his audience a glance sparkling with joy, the ironical scor| 
in which made the poor historian blush, “I who ha 
not the honour to belong to the Ministry of Education, 
he repeated, relishing the sound of his words, “ nor to th 


324 


— 


Sate ee 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


folney Club (my only clubs are the Union and the Jockey 
you aren’t in the Jockey, I think, sir?” he asked the 
‘istorian, who, blushing a still deeper red, scenting an 
asult and failing to understand it, began to tremble in 
very limb.) “I, who am not even invited to dine with 
‘A. Emile @llivier I must confess that I had never heard 
mentality’. I’m sure you’re in the same boat, Argen- 
ourt. 

“You know,” he went on, “ why they can’t produce the 
‘roofs of Dreyfus’s guilt. Apparently it’s because the War 
Minister’s wife was his mistress, that’s what people are 
aying.” 

“Ah! I thought it was the Prime Minister’s wife,” said 
if. ee oot 

“1 think you’re all equally tiresome about this wretched 
ase,’ ’ said the Duchesse de Guermantes, who, in the social 
ohere, was always anxious to shew that she did not allow 
erself to be led by anyone. “ It can’t make any difference 
3 me, so far as the Jews are concerned, for the simple 
sason that I don’t know any of them, and I intend to 
2main in that state of blissful ignorance. But on the other 
and I do think it perfectly intolerable that just because 
1ey’re supposed to hold ‘sound’ views and don’t deal 
ith Jewish tradesmen, or have ‘Down with the Jews’ 
| on their sunshades, we should have a swarm of 
Yurands and Dubois and so forth, women we should 
ever have known but for this business, forced down our 
wroats by Marie-Aynard or Victurnienne. I went to see 
Tarie-Aynard a couple of days ago. It used to be so nice 
tere. Nowadays one finds all the people one has spent 
ae’s life trying to avoid, on the pretext that they’re 
jainst Dreyfus, and others of whom you have no idea 


325 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


who they can be.” | 

“No; it was the War Minister’s wife; at least, that’s th 
bedside rumour,” went on the Duke, who liked to flavo 
his conversation with certain expressions which h 
imagined to be of the old school. “ Personally, of cours¢ 
as everyone knows, I take just the opposite view to m' 
cousin Gilbert. I am not feudal like him, I would g 
about with a negro if he was a friend of mine, and 
shouldn’t care two straws what anybody thought; sti) 
after all you will agree with me that when one goes b) 
the name of Saint-Loup one doesn’t amuse oneself b 
running clean against the rails of public opinion, which ha 
more sense than Voltaire or even my nephew. Nor doe! 
one go in for what I may be allowed to call these acrobatic 
of conscience a week before one comes up for a cluk 
It is a bit stiff, really! No, it is probably that little wence) 
of his that has put him on his high horse. I expect sh’ 
told him that he would be classed among the ‘ intellec 
tuals ’. The intellectuals, they’re the very cream of thos) 
gentry. It’s given rise, tig the Weave to a rather amusin| 
pun, though a very naughty one.’ | 

And ae Duke murmured, lowering his voice, for hi 
wife’s and M. d’Argencourt’s benefit, “Mater Semita, 
which had already made its way into the Jockey Clul 
for, of all the flying seeds in the world, that to which ar 
attached the most solid wings, enabling it to be dis 
seminated at the greatest distance from its parent branel 
is still a joke. | 

“We might ask this gentleman, who has a nerudit| 
air, to explain it to us,” he went on, indicating the his 
torian. “But it is better not to repeat it, especially a 
there’s not a vestige of truth in the suggestion. I am ne 


326 


- feat + 


} 


“> 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


so ambitious as my cousin Mirepoix, who claims that she 
san trace the descent of her family before Christ to the 
Tribe of Levi, and I will undertake to prove that there 
‘as never been a drop of Jewish blood in our family. Still 
‘here is no good in our shutting our eyes to the fact, you 
nay be sure that my dear nephew’s highly original views 
ire liable to make a considerable stir at Landerneau. 
ispecially as Fezensac is ill just now, and Duras will be 
cunning the election; you know how he likes to make 
quisances,” concluded the Duke, who had never succeeded 
id learning the exact meaning of certain phrases, and sup- 
vosed “* making nuisances ” to mean “ making difficulties ”, 
Bloch tried to pin M. de Norpois down on Colonel 
?icquart. 

_ “There can be no two opinions; ” replied M. de Nor- 
hois, “his evidence had to be taken. I am well aware 
‘hat, by maintaining this attitude, I have drawn screams 
‘f protest from more than one of my colleagues, but ta 
ay mind the Government were bound to let the Colonel 
‘peak. One can’t dance lightly out of a blind alley like 
hat, or if one does there’s always the risk of falling into a 
itch. As for the officer himself, his statement gave one, at 
‘he first hearing, a most excellent impression. When one 
aw him, looking so well in that smart Chasseur uniform, 
‘ome into court and relate in a perfectly simple and frank 
one what he had seen and what he had deduced, and say: 
‘On my honor as a soldier’” (here M. de Norpois’s 
loice shook with a faint patriotic throb) “ ‘such is my 
oviction,’ it is impossible to deny that the impression 
e made was profound.” 

_“ There; he is a Dreyfusard, there’s not the least doubt 
iE it,” thought Bloch, 


327 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


“ But where he entirely forfeited all the sympathy tha 
he had managed to attract was when he was confronter 
with the registrar, Gribelin. When one heard that ok 
public servant, a man who had only one answer to make; 
(here M. de Norpois began to accentuate his words wit) 
the energy of his sincere convictions) “ when one listener 
to him, when one saw him look his superior officer in th 
face, not afraid to hold his head up to him, and say ti 
him in a tone that admitted of no response: ‘ Colonel 
sir, you know very well that I have never told a lie, a 


know that at this moment, as always, I am speaking th: 


y 


truth,’ the wind changed; M. Picquart might move heave1 
and earth at the subsequent hearings; he made a complet 
fiasco.” 

“No; evidently he’s an anti-Dreyfusard; it’s quite ob 
vious,” said Bloch to himself. “ But if he considers Pic’ 
quart a traitor and a liar, how can he take his revelation: 
seriously, and quote them as if he found them ae | 
and believed them to be sincere. And if, on the othe 
hand, he sees in him an honest man easing his conscience 
how can he suppose him to have been lying when he wa‘ 
confronted with Gribelin? ” | 

“In any case, if this man Dreyfus is innocent,” the 
Duchess broke in, “he hasn’t done much to prove it 
What idiotic, raving letters he writes from that island. ] 
don’t know whether M. Esterhazy is any better, but he 
does shew some skill in his choice of words, a different 
tone altogether. That can’t be very pleasant for the sup: 
porters of M. Dreyfus. What a pity for them there’s ne 
way of exchanging innocents.” Everybody laughed. “ You 
heard what Oriane said?” the Duc de Guermantes in 
quired eagerly of Mme. de Villeparisis. “ Yes; I think it 


| 


-—— 


328 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


qost amusing.” This was not enough for the Duke. 
/ Well, I don’t know, I can’t say that I thought it amus- 
ag; or rather it doesn’t make the slightest difference to me 
yhether a thing is amusing or not. I don’t care about 
wit.” M. d’Argencourt protested. “It is probably be- 
vause I’ve been a Member of Parliament, where I have 
istened to brilliant speeches that meant absolutely noth- 
ag. I learned there to value, more than anything, logic. 
That’s probably why they didn’t elect me again. Amusing 
hhings leave me cold.” “ Basin, don’t play the heavy father 
wke that, my child, you know quite well that no one ad- 
aires wit more than you do.” “Please let me finish. It 
3 just because I am unmoved by a certain type of humour, 
hat I am often struck by my wife’s wit. For you will find 
t based, as a rule, upon sound observation. She reasons 
ike a man; she states her case like a writer.” 

, Possibly the explanation of M. de Norpois’s speaking 
a this way to Bloch, as though they had been in agree- 
ment, may have lain in the fact that he himself was so 
‘een an anti-Dreyfusard that, finding the Government 
sot anti-Dreyfusard enough, he was its enemy Just as 
auch as the Dreyfusards. Perhaps because the object to 
which he devoted himself in politics was something more 
rofound, situated on another plane, from which Drey- 
usism appeared as an unimportant modality which did 
sot deserve the attention of a patriot interested in large 
uestions of foreign policy. Perhaps, rather, because the 
aaxims of his political wisdom being applicable only to 
uestions of form, of procedure, of expediency, they were 
‘8 powerless to solve questions of fact as in philosophy 
wure logic is powerless to tackle the problems of existence; 
rt else because that very wisdom made him see danger in 


329 


— 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST | 


handling such subjects and so, in his caution, he pei 
to speak only of minor incidents. But where Bloch madi 
a mistake was in thinking that M. de Norpois, even hac 
he been less cautious by nature and of a less exclusively 
formal cast of mind, could (supposing he would) have 
told him the truth as to the part played by Henry 
Picquart or du Paty de Clam, or as to any of the differen 
aspects of the case. The truth, indeed, as to all these mat. 
ters Bloch could not doubt that M. de Norpois knew. 
How could he fail to know it seeing that he was a friend 
of all the Ministers? Naturally, Bloch thought that the 
truth in politics could be approximately reconstructed a 
the most luminous minds, but he imagined, like the man 
in the street, that it resided permanently, beyond the 
reach of argument and in a material form, in the secret 
files of the President of the Republic and the Prime Minis- 
ter, who imparted it to their Cabinet. Now, even when a 
political truth does take the form of written documents, 
it is seldom that these have any more value than a radio. 
graphic plate on which the layman imagines that the 
patient’s disease is inscribed in so many words, when, a 
a matter of fact, the plate furnishes simply one piece of 
material for study, to be combined with a number of 
others, which the doctor’s reasoning powers will take into 
consideration as a whole and upon them found his diag- 
nosis. So, too, the truth in politics, when one goes to 
well-informed men and imagines that one is about to 
grasp it, eludes one. Indeed, later on (to confine ourselves 
to the Dreyfus case), when so startling an event occurred’ 
as Henry’s confession, followed by his suicide, this fact’ 
was at once interpreted in opposite ways by the Drey- 
fusard Ministers, and by Cavaignac and Cuignet who had 


330 


Co eee 


pasa A J 


ip 
4 
ROR Be 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


chemselves made the discovery of the forgery and con- 
jucted the examination; still more so among the Drey- 
fusard Ministers themselves, men of the same shade of 
Dreyfusism, judging not only from the same documents 
nut in the same spirit, the part played by Henry was ex- 
plained in two entirely different ways, one set seeing in 
him an accomplice of Esterhazy, the others assigning that 
part to du Paty de Clam, thus rallying in support of a 
theory of their opponent Cuignet and in complete oppo- 
sition to their supporter Reinach. All that Bloch could 
elicit from M. de Norpois was that if it were true that the 
Chief of Staff, M. de Boisdeffre, had had a secret com- 
munication sent to M. Rochefort, it was evident that a 
singularly regrettable irregularity had occurred. 
_ “You may be quite sure that the War Minister must 
(in petto at any rate) be consigning his Chief of Staff 
to the infernal powers. An official disclaimer would not 
have been (to my mind) a work of supererogation. But 
the War Minister expresses himself very bluntly on the 
matter inter pocula. There are certain subjects, more- 
ver, about which it is highly imprudent to create an 
agitation over which one cannot retain control afterwards.” 
_ “But those documents are obviously forged,” put in 
‘Bloch. 

M. de Norpois made no reply to this, but announced 
that he did not approve of the manifestations that were 
being made by Prince Henri d’Orléans: 

“Besides, they can only ruffle the calm of the pre- 
‘torium, and encourage agitations which, looked at from 
either point of view, would be deplorable. Certainly we 
Bisse put a stop to the anti-militarist conspiracy, but we 
: a possibly tolerate, either, a brawl encouraged by 


331 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAyT 


those elements on the Right who instead of serving th 
patriotic ideal themselves are hoping to make it sery 
them. Heaven be praised, France is not a South America 
Republic, and the need has not yet been felt here fc. 
a military pronunciamento.” 
Bloch could not get him to speak on the question 
Dreyfus’s guilt, nor would he utter any forecast as to A 
judgment in the civil trial then proceeding. On the othe 
hand, M. de Norpois seemed only too ready to indicate th 
consequences of this judgment. | 
“If it is a conviction,” he said, “it will probably b 
quashed, for it is seldom that, in a case where | 
has been such a number of witnesses, there is not som 
flaw in the procedure which counsel can raise on appea 
To return to Prince Henri’s outburst, I greatly doub 
whether it has met with his father’s approval.” 
“You think Chartres is for Dreyfus?” asked thi 
Duchess with a smile, her eyes rounded, her cheeks bright 
her nose buried in her plate, her whole manner delicioush 
scandalised, | 
“Not at all; I meant only that there runs through thr 
whole family, on that side, a political sense which we havi 
seen, in the admirable Princesse Clémentine, carried tc 
its highest power, and which her son, Prince Ferdinand 


to his bosom.” ‘al 

“He would have preferred a private soldier,” mur- 
mured Mme. de Guermantes, who often met the Bul- 
garian monarch at dinner at the Prince de Joinville’s, and 
had said to him once, when he asked if she was not envi- 
ous: “ Yes, Sir, of your bracelets.” | 


332 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


“You aren’t going to Mme. de Sagan’s ball this eve- 
ing? ” M. de Norpois asked Mme. de Villeparisis, to cut 
‘hort his conversation with Bloch. My friend had not 
‘ailed to interest the Ambassador, who told us afterwards, 
aot without a quaint simplicity, thinking no doubt of the 
‘races that survived in Bloch’s speech of the neo-Homeric 
manner which he had on the whole outgrown: “He is 
rather amusing, with that way of speaking, a trifle old 
‘ashioned, a trifle solemn. You expect him to come out 
with ‘The Learned Sisters’, like Lamartine or Jean- 
Baptiste Rousseau. It has become quite uncommon in 
the youth of the present day, as it was indeed in the 
generation before them. We ourselves were inclined to be 
vomantic.” But however exceptional his companion may 
aave seemed to him, M. de Norpois decided that the con- 
yersation had lasted long enough. 

_ “No, sir, I don’t go to balls any more,” she replied 
with a iariaiag grandmotherly smile. “ You’re going, all 
of you, I suppose? You're the right age for that sort of 
thing,” she added, embracing in a comprehensive glance 
Me de Chatellerault, his friend and Bloch. “ Still, I was 
asked, ” she went on, pretending, just for fun, to he flat- 
tered by the distinction. “In fact, they came specially 
jo ask me.” (“ They” being the Princesse de Sagan.) 

_ “T haven’t had a card,” said Bloch, thinking that Mme. 
dle Villeparisis would at once offer to procure him one, and 
that Mme. de Sagan would be glad to see at her ball the 
friend of a woman whom she had called in person to 
nvite. 

_ The Marquise made no reply, and Bloch did not press 
the point, for he had another, more serious matter to 
liscuss with her, and, with that in view, had already asked 


333 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


her whether he might call again in a couple of days. Hay 
ing heard the two young men say that they had both jus 
resigned from the Rue Royale Club, which was letting i 
every Tom, Dick and Harry, he wished to ask Mme. d 
Villeparisis to arrange for his election there. ! 
“Aren’t they rather bad form, rather stuck-up snob: 
these Sagans?” he inquired in a tone of sarcasm. } 
“ Not at all, they’re the best we can do for you in the 
line,” M. d’Argencourt, who adopted all the catch-word 
of Parisian society, assured him. | 
“Then,” said Bloch, still half in irony, “I suppose it’ 
one of the solemnities, the great social fixtures of | 
season.” : 
Mme. de Villeparisis turned merrily to Mme. de Guer| 
mantes. | 
“ Tell us, is it a great social solemnity, Mme. de “ 
ball?” , 
“It’s no good asking me,” answered the Duchess, “ | 
have never yet succeeded in finding out what a socia 
solemnity is. Besides, society isn’t my strong point.” | 
“Indeed; I thought it was just the other way,” sai 
Bloch, who supposed Mme. de Guermantes to be speak 
ing seriously. | 
He continued, to the desperation of M. de Norpois, ti 
ply him with questions about the Dreyfus case. The Am’ 
bassador declared that, looking at it from outside, he go 
the impression fram du Paty de Clam of a somewha 
cloudy brain, which had perhaps not been very happil 
chosen to conduct that delicate operation, which require 
so much coolness and discernment, a judicial inquiry. 
“I know that the Socialist Party are crying aloud fo 
his head on a charger, as well as for the immediate releas 


334 


—— —— 


= ela 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


‘tthe prisoner from the Devil’s Isle. But I think that we 
‘re not yet reduced to the necessity of passing the Caudine 
vorks of MM. Gérault-Richard and Company. So far, 


ie whole case has been an utter mystery, I don’t say 
aat on one side just as much as on the other there has 
lot been some pretty dirty work to be hushed up. That 
attain of your client’s more or less disinterested pro- 
sectors may have the best intentions I will not attempt 
deny, but you know that heaven is paved with such 
aings,” he added, with a look of great subtlety. “ It is 
ential that the Government should give the impression 
jat they are not in the hands of the factions of the Left, 
nd that they are not going to surrender themselves, 
‘ound hand and foot, at the demand of some pretorian 
uard or other, which, believe me, is not the same thing 

3 the Army. It stands to reason that, should any fread 
ence come to light, a new trial would be ordered. And 
‘hat follows from that? Obviously, that to demand a 
ew trial is to force an open door. When the day comes, 
1e Government will speak with no uncertain voice or 
‘ill let fall into abeyance what is their essential preroga- 
ve. Cock and bull stories will no longer be enough. We 
lust appoint judges to try Dreyfus. And that will be an 
asy matter because, although we have acquired the 
fabit, in our sweet France, where we love to belittle 
urselves, of thinking or letting it be thought that, in order 
» hear the words Truth and Justice,-it is necessary to 
foss the Channel, which is very often only a round- 
bout way of reaching the Spree, there are judges to be 
ound outside Berlin. But once the machinery of Govern- 
tent has been set in motion, will you have ears for the 
dice of authority? When it ie you perform your duty 


335 


| 
REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST | 
as a citizen will you have ears for its voice, will you tak) 
your stand in the ranks of law and order? When its Pa 
triotic appeal sounds, will you have the wisdom not ti 
turn a deaf ear but to answer: ‘ Present!’?” { 
M. de Norpois put these questions to Bloch with , 
vehemence which, while it alarmed my friend, flatterei 
him also; for the Ambassador spoke to him with the ai 
of one addressing a whole party, questioned him as thoug 
he had been in the confidence of that party and might b 
held responsible for the decisions which it would adopt 
“Should you fail to disarm,” M. de Norpois went or 
without waiting for Bloch’s collective answer, “ shou 
you, before even the ink had dried on the decree orderin‘ 
the fresh trial of the case, obeying it matters not wha 
insidious word of command, fail, I say, to disarm, ani 
band yourselves, rather, in a sterile Opposition whic’ 
seems to some minds the ultima ratio of policy, should yo 
retire to your tents and burn your boats, you would b 
doing so to your own damnation, Are you the prisoner 
of those who foment disorder? Have you given ther) 
pledges?” Bloch was in doubt how to answer. M. d 
Norpois gave him no time. “If the negative be true, a 
I should like to think, and if you have a little of wha 
seems to me to be lamentably lacking in certain of you 
leaders and your friends, namely political sense, then, oO 
the day when the Criminal Court assembles, if you do ne 
allow yourselves to be dragooned by the fishers in trouble 
waters, you will have won your battle. I do not guarante 
that the whole of the General Staff is going to get awa’ 
unscathed, but it will be so much to the good if some ¢ 
them at least can save their faces without setting th 
heather on fire. 3 


—_—_ — 


—§— 


Ss 


336 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


“Tt stands to reason, moreover, that it is with the 
Government that it rests to pronounce judgment, and to 
‘lose the list—already too long—of unpunished crimes, 
iot certainly at the bidding of Socialist agitators, nor yet 
af any obscure military mouthpiece,” he added, looking 
loch boldly in the face, perhaps with the instinct that 
eads all Conservatives to establish support for themselves 
nm the enemy’s camp. “Government action is not to be 
lictated by the highest bidder, from wherever the bid 
nay come. The Government are not, thank heaven, under 
the orders of Colonel Driant, nor, at the other end of 
he scale, under M. Clemenceau’s. We must curb the pro- 
essional agitators and prevent them from raising their 
teads again. France, the vast majority here in France, 
lesires only to be allowed to work in orderly conditions. 
As to that, there can be no question whatever. But we 
aust not be afraid to enlighten public opinion; and if a 
ew sheep, of the kind our friend Rabelais knew so well, 
hould dash headlong into the water, it would be as well 
© point out to them that the water in question was 
roubled, that it had been troubled deliberately by an 
gency not within our borders, in order to conceal the 
angers lurking in its depths. And the Government ought 
Ot to give the impression that they are emerging from 
a passivity in self-defence when they exercise the right 
rhich is essentially their own, I mean that of setting the 
theels of justice in motion. The Government will accept 
Il your suggestions. If it is proved that there has been 
judicial error, they can be sure of an overwhelming 
lajority which would give them room to act with 
‘eedom.” 
“You, sir,” said Bloch, turning to M. d’Argencourt, to 


; 337 v 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


whom he had been made known, with the rest of th 
party, on that gentleman’s arrival, “you are a Drey 
fusard, of course; they all are, abroad.” | 
“It is a question that concerns only the French them 
selves, don’t you think?” replied M. d’Argencourt wit 
that peculiar form of insolence which consists in ascribin' 
to the other person an opinion which one must, obviously 
know that he does not hold since he has just expresse 
one directly its opposite. | 
Bloch coloured; M. d’Argencourt smiled, looking roti 
the room, and if this smile, so long as it was directed 
the rest of the company, was charged with malice ( 
Bloch’s expense, it became tempered with cordiality whe 
finally it came to rest on the face of my friend, so as t 
deprive him of any excuse for annoyance at the wom 
which he had heard uttered, though those words re 
mained just as cruel. Mme. de Guermantes muri 


| 


something to M. d’Argencourt which I could not heai 
but which must have referred to Bloch’s religion, for ther 
flitted at that moment over the face of the Duchess th | 
expression to which one’s fear of being noticed by th 
person of whom one is speaking gives a certain hesitanc’ 
and unreality, while there is blended with it the inquisitive’ 
malicious amusement inspired in one by a group of huma 
beings to which one feels oneself to be fundamentally ie 


To retrieve himself, Bloch turned to the Duc de Chatel 
lerault. “ You, sir, as a Frenchman, you must be awar 
that people abroad are all Dreyfusards, although every 
one pretends that in France we never know what is goin 
on abroad. Anyhow, I know I can talk freely to you 
Saint-Loup told me so.” But the young Duke, who fe 
that every one was turning against Bloch, and was | 


338 


eit 23 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


soward as people often are in society, employing a mor- 
dant and precious form of wit which he seemed, by a 
sort of collateral atavism, to have inherited from M. de 
harlus, replied: “ You must not ask me, sir, to discuss the 
Dreyfus case with you; it is a subject which, on principle, 
{ mever mention except to Japhetics.” Everyone smiled, 
xcept Bloch, not that he was not himself in the habit of 
making scathing references to his Jewish origin, to that 
ide of his ancestry which came from somewhere near 
jinai. But instead of one of these epigrams (doubtless 
yecause he had not one ready) the operation of the in- 
ernal machine brought to Bloch’s lips something quite 
fifferent. And we caught only: “But how on earth did 
you know? Who told you?” as though he had been the 
jon of a convict. Whereas, given his name, which had not 
wxactly a Christian sound, and his face, his surprise argued 
certain simplicity of mind. 

, What M. de Norpois had said not having completely 
jatisfied him, he went up to the librarian and asked him 
whether Mme. de Villeparisis did not sometimes have in her 
aouse M. du Paty de Clam or M. Joseph Reinach. The 
ibrarian made no reply; he was a Nationalist, and never 
teased preaching to the Marquise that the social revolu- 
fon might break out at any moment, and that she ought 
o shew more caution in the choice of her friends. He 
tsked himself whether Bloch might not be a secret emis- 
Jary of the Syndicate, come to collect information, and 
ent off at once to repeat to Mme. de Villeparisis the 
juestions that Bloch had put to him. She decided that, 
it the best, he was ill-bred and might be in a position to 
tompromise M. de Norpois. Also, she wished to give 
atisfaction to the librarian, the only person of whom she 


339 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


went in fear, by whom she was being indoctrinated, thou 
without any marked success (every morning he reé 
her M. Judet’s article in the Petit Journal). She decide 
therefore, to make it plain to Bloch that he need not con 
to the house again, and had no difficulty in finding, amor 
her social repertory, the scene by which a great lad 
shews anyone her door, a scene which does not in ar 
way involve the raised finger and blazing eyes thi 
people imagine. As Bloch came up to her to say good-by 
buried in her deep armchair, she seemed only hal 
awakened from a vague somnolence. Her sunken ey‘ 
gleamed with only the feeble though charming light of 
pair of pearls. Bloch’s farewell, barely pencilling on tl 
Marquise’s face a languid smile, drew from her not 
word, nor did she offer him her hand. This scene le 
Bloch in utter bewilderment, but as he was surround 
by a circle of spectators he felt that it could not be pre 
longed without disadvantage to himself, and, to force tk 
Marquise, the hand which she had made no effort to tak 
he himself thrust out at her. Mme. de Villeparisis w: 
startled. But doubtless, while still bent upon giving a 
immediate satisfaction to the librarian and the anti-Drey 
fusard clan, she wished at the same time to provide for tl 
future, and so contented herself with letting her eyelic 
droop over her closing eyes. 

“I believe she’s asleep,” said Bloch to the libraria 
who, feeling that he had the support of the Marquise, aj 
sumed an indignant air. “Good-bye, madame,” shout 
Bloch. | 

The old lady made the slight movement with her li 
of a dying woman who wants to open her mouth bi 
whose eye can no longer recognise people. Then st 


340 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


irned, overflowing with a restored vitality, to M. d’Argen- 
purt, while Bloch left the room, convinced that she must 
e “soft” in the head. Full of curiosity and anxious to 
ave more light thrown upon so strange an incident, he 
ime to see her again a few days later. She received him 
. the most friendly fashion, because she was a good- 
atured woman, because the librarian was not there, be- 
use she had in mind the little play which Bloch was 
ding to produce for her, and finally because she had 
sted once and for all the little scene of the indignant lady 
iat she had wished to act, a scene that had been uni- 
‘rsally admired and discussed the same evening in vari- 
is drawing-rooms, but in a version which had already 
ased to bear any resemblance to the truth. 

“You were speaking just now of the Seven Princesses, 
uchess; you know (not that it’s anything to be proud of) 

at the author of that—what shall I call it?—that pro- 
|ction is a compatriot of mine,” said M. d’Argencourt 
‘th a fine scorn blended with satisfaction at knowing 
ore than anyone else in the room about the author of a 

ork which had been under discussion. “Yes, he’s a 

tlgian, by nationality,” he went on. 

“Indeed! No, we don’t accuse you of any responsibility 

t the Seven Princesses. F ortunately for yourself and 

ur compatriots you are not like the author of that ab- 

tdity. I know several charming Belgians, yourself, your 

ing, who is inclined to be shy, but full of wit, my Ligne 

usins, and heaps of others, but you, I am thankful to 

y, do not speak the same language as the author of the 

ven Princesses. Besides, if you want to know, it’s not 

wth talking about, because really there is absolutely 

thing in it. You know the sort of people who are always 


341 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


trying to seem obscure, and even plan to make themselve: 
ridiculous to conceal the fact that they have not an idez 
in their heads. If there was anything behind it all, I ma 
tell you that I’m not in the least afraid of a little daring,’ 
she added in a serious tone, “ provided that there is somi 
idea in it. I don’t know if you’ve seen Borelli’s piec 
Some people seem to have been shocked by it, but I mus 
say, even if they stone me through the streets for sayin, 
it,” she went on, without stopping to think that she ra 
no very great risk of such a punishment, “I found i 
immensely interesting. But the Seven Princesses! It’s a 
very well, one of them having a fondness for my nephew 
I cannot carry family feeling quite .. .” 

The Duchess broke off abruptly, for a lady came 1 
who was the Comtesse de Marsantes, Robert’s mothe} 
Mme. de Marsantes was regarded in the Faubourg Sain 
Germain as a superior being, of a goodness, a resignatio 
that were positively angelic. So I had been told, and ha 
had no particular reason to feel surprised, not knowi 
at the same time that she was the sister of the Duc de Guei 
mantes. Later, I have always been taken aback, whenevt 
I have learned that such women, melancholy, pure, vi 
timised, venerated like the ideal forms of saints in chure 
windows, had flowered from the same genealogical ste 
as brothers brutal debauched and vile. Brothers and si 
ters, when they are closely alike im features as were tl 
Duc de Guermantes and Mme. de Marsantes, ought 
felt) to have a single intellect in common, the same heat 
as a person would have who might vary between got 
and evil moods but in whom one could not, for all thé 
expect to find a vast breadth of outlook if he had a narre 
mind, or a sublime abnegation if his heart was hard. 


342 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


Mme. de Marsantes attended Brunetiére’s lectures. She 
‘ascinated the Faubourg Saint-Germain and, by her saintly 
ife, edified it as well. But the morphological link of hand- 
some nose and piercing gaze led one, nevertheless, to clas- 
ify Mme. de Marsantes in the same intellectual and moral 
amily as her brother the Duke. I could not believe that 
the mere fact of her being a woman, and perhaps those 
%f her having had an unhappy life and won everyone’s 
iympathy could make a person be so different from the 
rest of her family, as in the old romances, where all the 
firtues and graces are combined in the sister of wild 
and lawless brothers. It seemed to me that nature, less 
znconventional than the old poets, must make use almost 
*xclusively of the elements common to the family, and I 
was unable to credit her with enough power of invention 
(0 construct, out of materials analogous to those that com- 
posed a fool and clod, a lofty mind without the least 
train of clownishness, a saint unsoiled by any brutality. 
Mme. de Marsantes was wearing a gown of white surah 
smbroidered with large palms, on which stood out flowers 
af a different material, these being black. This was be- 
ause, three weeks earlier, she had lost her cousin, M. de 
Montmorency, a bereavement which did not prevent her 
from paying calls or even from going to small dinners, 
mut always in mourning. She was a great lady. Atavism 
wad filled her with.the frivolity of generations of life 
t court, with all the superficial, rigorous duties that that 
mplies. Mme. de Marsantes had not had the strength 
if character to regret for any length of time the death of 
ter father and mother, but she would not for anything in 
he world have appeared in colours in the month follow- 
ag that of a cousin. She was more than pleasant to me, 


343 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


both because I was Robert’s friend and because I did no 
move in the same world as he. This pleasantness was ac- 
companied by a pretence of shyness, by that sort of inter- 
mittent withdrawal of the voice, the eyes, the mind whic 
a woman draws back to her like a skirt that has indis 
creetly spread, so as not to take up too much room, to 
remain stiff and erect even in her suppleness, as a good 
upbringing teaches. A good upbringing which must not 
however, be taken too literally, many of these ladies pass- 
ing very swiftly into a complete dissolution of morals 
without ever losing the almost childlike correctness of 
their manners. Mme. de Marsantes was a trifle irritating 
in conversation since, whenever she had occasion to speak 
of a plebeian, as for instance Bergotte or Elstir, she would 
say, isolating the word, giving it its full value, intoning it 
on two different notes with a modulation peculiar to the 
Guermantes: “I have had the honour, the great hon-out 
of meeting Monsieur Bergotte,” or “of making the ae 
quaintance of Monsieur Elstir,” whether that her hearers 
might marvel at her humility or from the same tendency 
that Mme. de Guermantes shewed to revert to the use ol 
obsolete forms, as a protest against the slovenly usages 
of the present day, in which people never professed them: 
selves sufficiently “honored”. Whichever of these was 
the true reason, one felt that when Mme. de Marsantes 
said: “I have had the honour, the great hon-our,” she felt 
she was playing an important part and shewing that she 
could take in the names of distinguished men as she woul¢ 
have welcomed the men themselves at her home in th 
country, had they happened to be in the neighbourhood 
On the other hand, as her family connexion was numerous 
as she was devoted to all her relatives, as, slow in speeck 


344 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


ind fond of explaining things at length, she was always 
ying to make clear the exact degree of kinship, she found 
ierself (without any desire to create an effect and without 
veally caring to talk about anyone except touching peas- 
ints and sublime gamekeepers) referring incessantly to 
ill the mediatised houses in Europe, a failing which people 
ess brilliantly connected than herself could not forgive, 
and, if they were at all intellectual, derided as a sign of 
stupidity. 

| In the country, Mme. de Marsantes was adored for the 
zood that she did, but principally because the purity of a 
strain of blood into which for many generations there had 
lowed only what was greatest in the history of France 
aad taken from her manner everything that the lower 
orders call “ manners”, and had given her a perfect sim- 
dlicity. She never shrank from kissing a poor woman who 
vas in trouble, and would tell her to come up to the castle 
‘or a cartload of wood. She was, people said, the perfect 
christian. She was determined to find an immensely rich 
wife for Robert. Being a great lady means playing the 
great lady, that is to say, to a certain extent, playing at 
simplicity. It is a pastime which costs an extremely high 
orice, all the more because simplicity charms people only 
on condition that they know that you are not bound to 
live simply, that is to say that you are very rich. Some 
one said to me afterwards, when I had told him of my 
meeting her: “ You saw af aatios that she must have 
deen lovely as a young woman.” But true beauty is so 
ndividual, so novel always, that one does not recognize 
‘tas beauty. I said to myself this afternoon only that she 
nad a tiny nose, very blue eyes, a long neck and a sad 
expression, 


345 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


“Listen,” said Mme. de Villeparisis to the Duchesse 
de Guermantes, “I’m expecting a woman at any moment 
whom you don’t wish to know. I thought I’ld better warn: 
you, to avoid any unpleasantness. But you needn’t be 
afraid, I shall never have her here again, only I was 
obliged to let her come to-day. It’s Swann’s wife.” 

Mme. Swann, seeing the dimensions that the Dreyfus 
case had begun to assume, and fearing that her husband’s 
racial origin might be used against herself, had besought 
him never again to allude to the prisoner’s innocence, 
When he was not present she went farther and used to 
profess the most ardent Nationalism; in doing which she 
was only following the example of Mme. Verdurin, in 
whom a middle-class anti-semitism, latent hitherto, had 
awakened and grown to a positive fury. Mme. Swann had 
won by this attitude the privilege of membership in several 
of the women’s leagues that were beginning to be formed 
in’ anti-semitic society, and had succeeded in making 
friends with various members of the aristocracy. It may 
seem strange that, so far from following their example, 
the Duchesse de Guermantes, so close a friend of Swann, 
had on the contrary always resisted his desire, which he 
had not concealed from her, to introduce to her his wife. 
But we shall see in due course that this arose from the’ 
peculiar nature of the Duchess, who held that she was not 
“bound to” do things, and laid down with despotic force 
what had been decided by her social “ free will”, which 
was extremely arbitrary. : 

“Thank you for telling me,” said the Duchess. “It 
would indeed be most unpleasant. But as I know her by 
sight I shall be able to get away in time.” i 

“I assure you, Oriane, she is really quite nice; an 


346 


Riemer cc s 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


excellent woman,” said Mme. de Marsantes. 
_ “TJ have no doubt she is, but I feel no need to assure 
myself of it.” 
| “Have you been invited to Lady Israels’s?”” Mme de 
Villeparisis asked the Duchess, to change the Boe ea 
“Why, thank heaven, I don’t ie the woman,” re- 
plied Mme. de Guermantes. “ You must ask an ee 
nard. She knows her. I never could make out why.” 
_ “TI did indeed know her at one time,” said Mme. de 
Marsantes. “I confess my faults. But I have decided not 
to know her any more. It seems she’s one of the very 
worst of them, and makes no attempt to conceal it. Be- 
sides, we have all been too trusting, too hospitable. I 
shall never go near anyone of that race again. While we 
had old friends, country cousins, people of our own flesh 
and blood on whom we shut our doors, we threw them 
open to Jews. And now we see what thanks we get from 
them. But I’ve no right to speak; I have an adorable son, 
and, like a young ae be says and does all the maddest 
things you can imagine,” she went on, having caught 
some allusion by M. @ Argencourt to Robert. “ But, talk- 
ing of Robert, haven’t you seen him?” she asked Mme. 
de Villeparisis; “being Saturday, I thought he’ld be com- 
Ing to Paris on ae and in that case he would, be sure 
to pay you a visit.” 
_ As a matter of fact Mme. de Marsantes thought that 
her son would not obtain leave that week; but knowing 
that, even if he did, he would never ret of coming to 
see Mme. de Villeparisis, she hoped, by making herself 
appear to have expected to find him in the room, to 
procure his forgiveness from her susceptible aunt for all 


the visits that he had failed to pay her. 
347 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


“Robert here! But I have never had a single word 
from him; I don’t think I’ve seen him since Balbec.” 
“He is so busy; he has so much to do,” pleaded Mme: 
de Marsantes. . 
A faint smile made Mme. de Guermantes’s eyelashes 
quiver as she studied the circle which, with the point 
of her sunshade, she was tracing on the carpet. When- 
ever the Duke had been too openly unfaithful to his 
wife, Mme. de Marsantes had always taken up the 
cudgels against her own brother on her sister-in-law’s 
behalf. The latter had a grateful and bitter memory ol 
this protection, and was not herself seriously shocked 
by Robert’s pranks. At this point the door opened again 
and Robert himself entered the room. 
“Well, talk of the Saint!” said Mme. de Guermantes, 
Mme. de Marsantes, who had her back to the door, 
had not seen her son come in. When she did catch| 
sight of him, her motherly bosom was convulsed with) 
joy, as by the beating of a wing, her body half rose from) 
her seat, her face quivered and she fastened on Rober 
eyes big with astonishment: | 
“What! You’ve come! How delightful! What a sur- 
prise! ” | 
“Ah! Talk of the Saint!—I see,” cried the Belgian 
diplomat, with a shout of laughter. 
“Delicious, ain’t it?” came tartly from the Duchess, 
who hated puns, and had ventured on this one onl 
with a pretence of making fun of herself. } 
“Good afternoon, Robert,” she said, “I believe he’s 
forgotten his aunt.” | 
They talked for a moment, probably about myself, 
for as Saint-Loup was leaving her to join his mother 


348 


TITHE GUERMANTES WAY 


Ime. de Guermantes turned to me: 

“Good afternoon; how are you?” was her greeting. 
She allowed to rain on me the light of her azure gaze, 
ssitated for a moment, unfolded and stretched towards 
‘e the stem of her arm, leaned forward her body which 
yrang rapidly backwards like a bush that has been 
alled down to the ground and, on being released, re- 
ims to its natural position. Thus she acted under the 
‘e of Saint-Loup’s eyes, which kept her under observa- 
on and were making frantic efforts to obtain some 
irther concession still from his aunt. Fearing that our 
myversation might fail altogether, he joined in, to stimu- 
‘te it, and answered for me: 

‘“He’s not very well just now, he gets rather tired; 
‘think he would be a great deal better, by the way, 
‘he saw you more often, for I can’t help telling you 
iat he admires you immensely.” 

“Oh, but that’s very nice of him,” said Mme. de 
uermantes in a deliberately casual tone, as if I had 
cought her her cloak. “I am most flattered.” 

“Look, I must go and talk to my mother for a minute; 
‘ke my chair,” said Saint-Loup, thus forcing me to sit 
own next to his aunt. 

'We are both silent. 

“T see you sometimes in the morning,” she said, as 
ough she were telling me something that I did not 
now, and I for my part had never seen her. “It’s so 
vod for one, a walk.” 

“Oriane,” began Mme. de Marsantes in a low tone, 
you said you were going on to Mme. de Saint-Ferréol’s; 
ould you be so very kind as to tell her not to expect 
to dinner, I shall stay at home now that I’ve got 


349 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


Robert. And one other thing, but I hardly like to a 
you, if you would leave word as you pass to tell ther 
to send out at once for a box of the cigars Robert like 
‘Corona’, they’re called. I’ve none in the house.” 

Robert came up to us; he had caught only the na 
of Mme. de Saint-Ferréol. 

“Who in the world is Mme. de Saint-Ferréol?” } 
inquired, in a surprised but decisive tone, for he affect 
a studied ignorance of everything to do with society. 

“But, my dear boy, you know quite well,” said h 
mother, “She’s Vermandois’s sister. It was she gave y 
that nice billiard table you liked so much.” 

“What, she’s Vermandois’s sister, I had no idea 
that. Really, my family are amazing,” he went on, tur 
ing so as to include me in the conversation and adoptir 
unconsciously Bloch’s intonation just as he borrowed h 
ideas, “they know the most unheard-of people, peop 
called Saint-Ferréol” (emphasising the final consona 
of each word) “and names like that; they go to ball 
they drive in victorias, they lead a fabulous existenc 
It’s prodigious.” 

Mme. de Guermantes made in her throat a sligh 
short, sharp sound, as of an involuntary laugh whi 
one chokes back, meaning thereby to shew that she pai 
just as much tribute as the laws of kinship impose 
on her to her nephew’s wit. A servant came in to s 
that the Prince von Faffenheim-Munsterburg-Weinig 
had sent word to M. de Norpois that he was waiting. — 

“Bring him in, sir,’ said Mme. de Villeparisis to tl 
old Ambassador, who started in quest of the Germa 
Minister. i 

“Stop, sir; do you think I ought to shew him tk 


350 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


miature of the Empress Charlotte?” 

“Why, I’m sure he’ll be delighted,” said the Ambas- 
dor in a tone of conviction, and as though he were 
vying the fortunate Minister the favour that was in 
ore for him. 

“Oh, I know he’s very sound,’ said Mme. de Mar- 
ntes, “and that is so rare among foreigners. “ But 
ve found out all about him. He is anti-semitism per- 
nified.”’ 

The Prince’s name preserved in the boldness with 
uch its opening syllables were—to borrow an expres- 
m from music—attacked, and in the stammering repe- 
ion that scanned them, the impulse, the mannered 
mplicity, the heavy delicacies of the Teutonic race, 
jected like green boughs over the “heim” of dark 
we enamel which glowed with the mystic light of 
(Rhenish window behind the pale and finely wrought 
dings of the German eighteenth century. This name 
tluded, among the several names of which it was 
mposed, that of a little German watering-place to 
lich as a child I had gone with my grandmother, at 
e foot of a mountain honoured by the feet of Goethe, 
pm the vineyards of which we used to drink, at the 
arhof, their illustrious vintages with elaborate and 
morous names, like the epithets which Homer applies 
‘his heroes. And so, scarcely had I heard the Prince’s 
me spoken than, before I had recalled the watering- 
ace, the name itself seemed to shrink, to grow rich 
‘th humanity, to find large enough a little place in 
y memory to which it clung, familiar, earth to earth, 
cturesque, savoury, light, with something about it, 
9, that was authorised, prescribed. And then, M. de 


351 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


Guermantes, in explaining who the Prince ‘was, quote’ 
a number of his titles, and I recognised the name ( 
a village threaded by the river on which, every evenin’ 
my cure finished for the day, I used to go in a bo: 
amid the mosquitoes, and that of a forest so far awa! 
that the doctor would not allow me to make the ey 
cursion to it. And indeed it was comprehensible thi 
the suzerainty of the lord extended to the surroundi i 
places and associated afresh in the enumeration of h 
titles the names which one could read, close togethe’ 
upon a map. Thus beneath the visor of the Prince ¢ 
the Holy Roman Empire and Knight of Franconia | 
was the face of a dear and smiling land, on which ha’ 
often lingered for me the light of the six-o’clock sui 
that I saw, at any rate before the Prince, Rheingraf an 
Elector Palatine, had entered the room. For I speedi 
learned that the revenues which he drew from the fore’ 
_and river, peopled with gnomes and undines, and fro 
the enchanted mountain on which rose the ancient Bur 
that cherished memories of Luther and Lewis the Ge 
manic, he employed in keeping five Charron motor-car 
a house in Paris and one in London, a box on Monday 
at the Opera and another for the “ Tuesdays ” at th 
“Francais”. He did not seem to me, nor did he seer 
to regard himself as different from other men of similé 
fortune and age who had a less poetic origin. He ha 
their culture, their ideals, he was proud of his rank, bi 
purely on account of the advantages it conferred on hin 
and had now only one ambition in life, to be electe! 
a Corresponding Member of the Academy of Moral ani 
Political Sciences, which was the reason of his comin 
to see Mme. de Villeparisis. If he, whose wife was 


352 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


jader of the most exclusive set in Berlin, had begged 
be introduced to the Marquise, it was not the result 
any desire on his part for her acquaintance. Devoured 
© years past by this ambition to be elected to the 
ystitute, he had unfortunately never been in a position 
, reckon above five the number of Academicians who 
emed prepared to vote for him. He knew that M. de 
orpois could by himself dispose of at least ten others, 
number which he was capable, by skillful negotiations, 
increasing still further. And so the Prince, who had 
town him in Russia when they were both there as 
mbassadors, had gone to see him and had done every- 
jing in his power to win him over. But in vain might 
, multiply his friendly overtures, procure for the Mar- 
iis Russian decorations, quote him in articles on foreign 
Hiitics ; he had had before him an ingrate, a man in 
ose eyes all these attentions appeared to count as 
ithing, who had not advanced the prospects of his 
indidature one inch, had not even promised him his 
m vote. No doubt M. de Norpois received him with 
treme politeness, indeed begged that he would not put 
mself out and “take the trouble to come so far out 
| his way,” went himself to the Prince’s residence, and 
en the Teutonic Knight had launched his: “I should 
|e immensely to be your colleague,” replied in a tone 
| deep emotion: “ Ah! I should be most happy!” And 
| doubt a simpleton, a Dr. Cottard would have said 
himself: “Well, here he is in my house; it was he 
110 insisted on coming, because he regards me as a 
dre important person than himself; he tells me that 
would be happy to see me in the Academy; words 
have some meaning after all, damn it, probably if 


' 353 w 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


he doesn’t offer to vote for me it is because it hasn 
occurred to him. He lays so much stress on my gre 
influence; presumably he imagines that larks drop in 
my mouth ready roasted, that I have all the supp 
I want, and that is why he doesn’t offer me his; b 
I have only got to get him with his back to the wa 
and just say to him quietly: ‘Very well, vote for 
will you?’ and he will be obliged to do it.” | 

But Prince von Faffenheim was no simpleton. He w 
what Dr. Cottard would have called “a fine diplomat 
and he knew that M. de Norpois was no less fine a 0 
than himself, nor a man who would have failed to reali 
without needing to be told that he could confer a favo 
on a candidate by voting for him. The Prince, in } 
Embassies and as Foreign Minister, had conducted, 
his country’s behalf instead of, as in the present instan 
his own, many of those conversations in which one kno} 
beforehand just how far one is prepared to go and 
what point one will decline to commit oneself. He w 
not unaware that, in this diplomatic language, to ta 
meant to offer. And it was for this reason that | 
had arranged for M. de Norpois to receive the Cords 
of Saint Andrew. But if he had had to report to | 
Government the conversation which he had subsequent 
had with M. de Norpois, he would have stated in I 
dispatch: “I realised that I had gone the wrong wi 
to work.” For as soon as he had returned to the subj 
of the Institute, M. de Norpois had repeated: 

“TI should like nothing better; nothing could be bett 
for my colleagues. They ought, I consider, to feel gen 
inely honoured that you should have thought of the 
It is a really interesting candidature, a little outside o 


354 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


dinary course. As you know, the Academy is very 
mventional, it takes fright at everything which has 
all a novel sound. Personally, I deplore this. How 
ten have I had occasion to say as much to my col- 
agues! | cannot be sure, God forgive me, that I did not 
en once let the word ‘hide-bound’ escape me,” he 
lded, in an undertone, with a scandalised smile, almost 
ide, as in a scene on the stage, casting at the Prince 
tapid, sidelong glance from his blue eyes, like a veteran 
tor studying the effect on his audience. “ You under- 
and, Prince, that I should not care to allow a per- 
mality so eminent as yourself to embark on a venture 
nich was hopeless from the start. So long as my col- 
agues’ ideas linger so far behind the times, I consider 
at the wiser course will be to abstain. But you may 
St assured that if I were ever to discern a mind that 
s a little more modern, a little more alive, shewing 
elf in that college, which is tending to become a mau- 
leum, if I could reckon upon any possible chance of 
yur success, I should be the first to inform you of it.” 
“The Cordon was a mistake,” thought the Prince; 
the negotiations have not advanced in the least; that 
‘not what he wanted. I have not yet laid my hand on 
e right key.” 
This was a kind of reasoning of which M. de Norpois, 
rmed in the same school as the Prince, would also 
we been capable. One may mock at the pedantic silli- 
‘ss with which diplomats of the Norpois type go into 
stasies over some piece of official wording which is, 
‘all practical purposes, meaningless. But their chil- 
shness has this compensation; diplomats know that, in 
2 loaded scales which assure that European or other 


355 


Y 


~ 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


equilibrium which we call peace, good feeling, soundii 
speeches, earnest entreaties weigh very little; and th! 
the heavy weight, the true determinant consists in som 
thing else, in the possibility which the adversary does ( 
he is strong enough) or does not enjoy of satisfying, | 
exchange for what one oneself wants, a desire. With th 
order of truths, which an entirely disinterested perso’ 
such as my grandmother for instance, would not hay 
understood, M. de Norpois and Prince von Faffenher) 
had frequently had to deal. Chargé d’Affaires in cou! 
tries with which we had been within an ace of going 4 
war, M. de Norpois, in his anxiety as to the turn whic 
events were about to take, knew very well that it wi 
not by the word “ Peace”, nor by the word “ War” th 
it would be revealed to him, but by some other, aj 
parently commonplace word, a word of terror or ble 
sing, which the diplomat, by the aid of his cipher, wou 
immediately read and to which, to safeguard the honoy 
of France, he would respond in another word, quite { 
commonplace, but one beneath which the Minister | 
the enemy nation would at once see written: “ War 
Moreover, in accordance with a time-honoured custor 
analogous to that which gave to the first meeting b 
tween two young people promised to one another | 
marriage the form of a chance encounter at a performan 
in the Théatre du Gymnase, the dialogue in the course ¢ 
which destiny was to dictate the word “ War” or the wol, 
“ Peace” was held, as a rule, not in the ministerial san’ 
tum but on a bench in a Kurgarten where the Ministi 
and M. de Norpois went independently to a thermal sprit 
to drink at its source their little tumblers of some cur: 
tive water. By a sort of tacit convention they met at tl 


356 


| 
| THE GUERMANTES WAY 


our appointed for their cure, began by taking together 
‘short stroll which, beneath its innocent appearance, each 
ff the speakers knew to be as tragic as an order for 
obilisation. And so, in a private matter like this nomina- 
on for election to the Institute, the Prince had employed 
e same system of induction which had served him in his 
ublic career, the same method of reading beneath super- 
posed symbols. 

'And certainly it would be wrong to pretend that my 
vandmother and the few who resembled her would have 
zen alone in their failure to understand this kind of 
culation. For one thing, the average human being, prac- 
sing a profession the lines of which have been laid down 
© him from the start, comes, near, by his want of intui- 
om, to the ignorance which my grandmother owed to her 
fty disinterestedness. Often one has to come down to 
kept” persons, male or female, before one finds the 
dden spring of actions or words apparently of the most 
mocent nature in self-interest, in the bare necessity to 
sep alive. What man does not know that when a woman 
hom he is going to pay says to him: “ Don’t let’s talk 
out money,” the speech must be regarded as what is 
Iled in music “a silent beat” and that if, later on, she 
‘clares: “ You are far too much trouble ; you are always 
‘eping things from me; I’ve done with you,” he must 
terpret this as: “Some one else has been offering her 
ore.” And yet this is only the language of a lady of 
\Sy virtue, not so far removed from the ladies in society. 
he apache furnishes more striking examples. But M. 
: Norpois and the German Prince, if apaches and their 
ays were unknown to them, had been accustomed to 
ming on the same plane as nations, which are also, despite 


357 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


their greatness, creatures of selfishness and cunning, kep) 
in order only by force, by consideration of their materig 
interests which may drive them to murder, a murder the 
is often symbolic also, since its mere hesitation or refus¢ 
to fight may spell for a nation the word “Perish”. By 
inasmuch as all this is not set forth in Yellow and other 
wise coloured Books, the people as a whole are natural} 
pacific; should they be warlike, it is instinctively, fror) 
hatred, from a sense of injury, not for the reasons whic. 
-have made up the mind of their ruler, on the advice c 
his Norpois. | 

The following winter the Prince was seriously ill; h 
recovered, but his heart was permanently affected. | 

“The devil!” he said to himself, “I can’t afford to los 
any time over the Institute. If I wait too long, I ma: 
be dead before they elect me. That really would b 
unpleasant.” 4 

He composed, on the foreign politics of the last twent 
years, an essay for the Revue des Deux Mondes, in whie 
he referred more than once, and in the most flatterin| 
terms, to M. de Norpois. The French diplomat calle’ 
upon him to thank him. He added that he did not kno’ 
how to express his gratitude. The Prince said to himsel! 
like a man who has been trying to fit various keys int 
a stubborn lock: “Still not the right one!” and, feelin 
somewhat out of breath as he shewed M. de Norpois t 
the door, thought: ‘Damn it, these fellows will see m 
in my grave before letting me in. We must hurry up.” | 

That evening, he met M. de Norpois again at the Oper 

“ My dear Ambassador,” he began to him, “ you tol 
me to-day that you did not know what you could dot 
prove your gratitude; it was a great exaggeration, for yc 


358 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


jwe me none, but I am going to be so indelicate as to 
ake you at your word.” 

_M. de Norpois had no less high an esteem for the 
*rince’s tact than the Prince had for his. He understood 
t once that it was not a request that Prince von Faffen- 
ieim was about to present to him, but an offer, and with 
radiant affability made ready to hear it. 

“Well now, you will think me highly indiscreet. There 
re two people to whom I am greatly attached—in quite 
ifferent ways, as you will understand in a moment—two 
ieople both of whom have recently settled in Paris, where 
hey intend to remain for the future: my wife, and the 
grand Duchess John. They are thinking of giving a few 
inners, chiefly in honour of the King and Queen of Eng- 
and, and what they would have liked more than anything 
fa the world would have been to be able to offer their 
uests the company of a person for whom, without know- 
ag her, they both of them feel a great admiration. | 
onfess that I did not know how I was going to gratify 
heir wish when I learned just now, by the most extraor- 
dmary accident, that you were a friend of this person. I 
mow that she lives a most retired life, and sees only a 
ery few people— happy few,’ as Stendhal would say— 
fut if you were to give me your backing, with the gen- 
fosity that you have always shewn me, I am sure that 
he would allow you to present me to her and to convey 
> her the wishes of both the Grand Duchess and the 
‘rincess. Perhaps she would consent to dine with us, 
then the Queen of England comes, and then (one never 
mows) if we don’t bore her too much, to spend the Easter 
olidays with us at Beaulieu, at the Grand Duchess John’s. 
“he person I allude to is called the Marquise de Ville- 


399 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


parisis. I confess that the hope of becoming one of th 
frequenters of such a school of wit would console me 
would make me contemplate without regret the abandon 
ing of my attempt at the Institute. For in her house, toc 
I understand, there is a regular flow of intellect and bril 
liant talk.” 

With an inexpressible sense of pleasure the Prince fe 
that the lock no longer resisted, and that at last the ke 
was turning. 

“Such an alternative is wholly Bh arate ek my dea 
Prince,” replied M. de Norpois; “nothing is more i 
harmony with the Institute than the house you spea 
of, which is a regular hotbed of Academicians. I sha 
convey your request to Mme. la Marquise de Ville 
parisis: she will undoubtedly be flattered. As for her din 
ing with you, she goes out very little, and that will perhap 
be more difficult to arrange. But I shall present you t 
her and you can plead your cause in person. You must 0 
no account give up the Academy; to-morrow fortnigh’ 
as it happens, I shall be having luncheon, before goin 
on with him to an important meeting, at Leroy-Beaulieu’ 
without whom nobody can be elected; I had alread 
allowed myself in conversation with him to let fall you 
name, with which, naturally, he was perfectly familia 
He raised certain objections. But it so happens that h 
requires the support of my group at the next election, an 
I fully intend to return to the charge; I shall tell hir 
quite openly of the wholly cordial ties that unite u 
T shall not conceal from him that, if you were to stan¢ 
I should ask all my friends to vote for you,” (here th 
Prince breathed a deep sigh of relief) “and he know 
that I have friends. I consider that if I were to succee 


360 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


! obtaining his assistance your chances would become 
ary Bas Come that evening, at six, to Mme. de Ville- 
arisis’s; I will introduce you i her and I can give you 
a account then of my conversation with him.” 

Thus it was that Prince von Faffenheim had been 
d to call upon Mme. de Villeparisis. My profound 
jsillusionment occurred when he spoke. It had never 
tuck me that, if an epoch in history has features both 
articular and general which are stronger than those of 
“nationality, so that in a biographical dictionary with 
lustrations, which go so far as to include an authentic 
ortrait of Minerva, Leibniz with his wig and ruff differs 
ttle from Marivaux or Samuel Bernard, a nationality 
as particular features stronger than those of a caste. In 
le present instance these were rendered before me not 
ya discourse in which I had expected, before I saw him, 
> hear the rustling of the elves and the dance of the 
‘obolds, but by a transposition which certified no less 
hae ery ate 

lainly that poetic origin: the fact that, as he bowed, short, 
ad, corpulent, over the hand of Mme. de Villeparisis, 
re Rheingraf said to her: “ Aow to you too, Matame la 
Be guise,” in the accent of an Alsatian porter. 
'“Won’t you let me give you a cup of tea or a little 
f this cake; it is so good?”” Mme. de Guermantes asked 
ie, anxious to have shewn herself as friendly as possible. 
Ido the honours in this house just as if it was mine,” 
de explained in an ironical tone which gave a slightly 
uttural sound to her voice, as though she were trying 
2 stifle a hoarse laugh. 

“Sir,” said Mme. de Villeparisis to M. de Norpois, 
you won’t forget that you have something to say to the 
‘tince about the Academy?” 


361 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


Mme. de Guermantes lowered her eyes and gave | 
semicircular turn to her wrist to look at the time. 
“Gracious! I must fly at once if I’m to get to Mme 
de Saint-Ferréol’s, and I’m dining with Mme. Leroi.” 
And she rose without bidding me good-bye. She hac 
just caught sight of Mme. Swann, who appeared con 
siderably embarrassed at finding me in the room. Sh 
remembered, doubtless, that she had been the first to as. 
sure me that she was convinced of Dreyfus’s innocence 
“T don’t want my mother to introduce me to Mme! 
Swann,” Saint-Loup said to me. “ She’s an ex-whore. Her 
husband’s a Jew, and she comes here to pose as a Na 
tionalist. Hallo, here’s uncle Palaméde.” | 
The arrival of Mme. Swann had a special interest fo 
me, due to an incident which had occurred a few days 
earlier and which I am obliged to record on account of 
the consequences which it was to have at a much late 
date, as the reader will learn in due course. Well, a few 
days before this visit to Mme. de Villeparisis, I had my: 
self received a visitor whom I little expected, namel 
Charles Morel, the son (though I had never heard o} 
his existence) of my great-uncle’s old servant. This great 
uncle (he in whose house I had met the lady in pink) ha 
died the year before. His servant had more than one 
expressed his intention of coming to see me; I had n 
idea of the object of his visit, but should have been gla 
to see him for I had learned from Francoise that he ha 
a genuine veneration for my uncle’s memory and made ¢ 
pilgrimage regularly to the cemetery in which he was 
buried. But, being obliged, for reasons of health, to retire 
to his home in the country, where he expected to remair 
for some time, he delegated the duty to his son. I was 


362 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


urprised to see come into my room a handsome young 
ellow of eighteen, dressed with expensive rather than good 
aste, but looking, all the same, like anything in the world 
‘xcept the son of a gentleman’s servant. He made a point, 
noreover, at the start of our conversation, of severing all 
‘onnexion with the domestic class from which he sprang, 
xy informing me, with a smile of satisfaction, that he had 
won the first prize at the Conservatoire. The object of his 
fisit to me was as follows: his father, when going through 
the effects of my uncle Adolphe, had set aside some 
which, he felt, could not very well be sent to my parents 
sut were at the same time of a nature likely to interest 
, young man of my age. These were the photographs of 
the famous actresses, the notorious courtesans whom my 
ancle had known, the last fading pictures of that gay life 
of a man about town which he divided by a watertight 
sompartment from his family life. While young Morel was 
shewing them to me, I noticed that he addressed me as 
though he were speaking to an equal. He derived from 
saying “you” to me as often, and “sir” as seldom as 
dossible the pleasure natural in one whose father had 
lever ventured, when addressing my parents, upon any- 
thing but the third person. Almost all these photographs 
Dore an inscription such as: “To my best friend.” One 
actress, less grateful and more circumspect than the rest, 
had written: “ To the best of friends,” which enabled her 
(so I was assured) to say afterwards that my uncle was 
n no sense and had never been her best friend but was 
merely the friend who had done the most little services 
for her, the friend she made use of, a good, kind man, 
‘n other words an old fool. In vain might young Morel 
seek to divest himself of his lowly origin, one felt that 


363 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


the shade of my uncle Adolphe, venerable and gigantic 
in the eyes of the old servant, had never ceased to hover 
almost a holy vision, over the childhood and boyhood © 
the son. While I was turning over the photographs Charles 
Morel examined my room. And as I was looking for 
some place in which I might keep them, “ How is it,” 
he asked me (in a tone in which the reproach had ne 
need to find expression, so implicit was it in the words 
themselves), “that I don’t see a single photograph of 
your uncle in your room?” J felt the blood rise to my 
cheeks and stammered: “ Why, I don’t believe I have suck 
a thing.” “What, you haven’t one photograph of you 
uncle Adolphe, who was so devoted to you! I will sen 
_you one of my governor’s—he has quantities of them— 
and I hope you will set it up in the place of honour aboy 
that chest of drawers, which came to you from you 
uncle.” It is true that, as I had not even a photograph ol 
my father or mother in my room, there was nothing s 
very shocking in there not being one of my uncle Adolphe 
But it was easy enough to see that for old Morel, wh 
had trained his son in the same way of thinking, my 
uncle was the important person in the family, my parent 
only reflecting a diminished light from his. I was in higher 
favour, because my uncle used constantly to say that I wa 
going to turn out a sort of Racine, or Vaulabelle, an 
Morel regarded me almost as an adopted son, as a chil 
by election of my uncle. I soon discovered that this young 
man was extremely “pushing”. Thus at this first meet: 
ing he asked me, being something of a composer as wel 
and capable of setting short poems to music, whether ] 
knew any poet who had a good position in society. | 
mentioned one. He did not know the work of this poet 


364 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


‘nd had never heard his name, of which he made a note. 
Vell, I found out that shortly afterwards he wrote to 
he poet telling him that, a fanatical admirer of his work, 
ie, Morel, had composed a musical setting for one of his 
onnets and would be grateful if the author would arrange 
or its performance at the Comtesse so-and-so’s. This was 
soing a little too fast, and exposing his hand. The poet, 
aking offence, made no reply. 

For the rest, Charles Morel seemed to have, besides 
ais ambition, a strong leaning towards more concrete 
‘ealities. He had noticed, as he came through the court- 
yard, Jupien’s niece at work upon a waistcoat, and al- 
though he explained to me only that he happened to want 
4 fancy waistcoat at that very moment, I felt that the 
zirl had made a vivid impression on him. He had no 
hesitation about asking me to come downstairs and in- 
troduce him to her, “but not as a connexion of your 
family, you follow me, I rely on your discretion not to 
drag in my father, say just a distinguished artist of your 
acquaintance, you know how important it is to make a 
good impression on tradespeople.” Albeit he had sug- 
gested to me that, not knowing him well enough to call 
im, he quite realised, “ dear friend,” I might address him, 
before the girl, in some such terms as “not dear master, 
of course, ... although... well, if you like, dear 
distinguished artist,” once in the shop, I avoided “ quality- 
ing” him, as Saint-Simon would have expressed it, and 
contented myself with reiterating his “you”. He picked 
‘out from several patterns of velvet one of the brightest 
red imaginable and so loud that, for all his bad taste, 
he was never able to wear the waistcoat when it was 
made. The girl settled down to work again with her two 


365 


—. 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


“apprentices ”, but it struck me that the impression ha 
been mutual, and that Charles Morel, whom she regarded 
as of her own “ station ” (only smarter and richer), ha 
proved singularly attractive to her. As I had been greatly 
surprised to find among the photographs which his father 
had sent me one of the portrait of Miss Sacripant (other. 
wise Odette) by Elstir, I said to Charles Morel as I wen 
with him to the outer gate: “I don’t suppose you can 
tell me, but did my uncle know this lady well? I don’t 
see at what stage in his life I can fit her in exactly; and 
it interests me, because of M. Swann . . .” “ Why, if ] 
wasn’t forgetting to tell you that my father asked me 
specially to draw your attention to that lady’s picture, 
As a matter of fact, she was ‘ lunching’ with your uncle 
the last time you ever saw him. My father was in tw 
minds whether to let you in. It seems you made a great 
impression on the wench, and she hoped to see more of 
you. But just at that time there was some trouble in the 
family, by what my father tells me, and you never set 
eyes on your uncle again.” He broke off with a smile of 
farewell, across the courtyard, at Jupien’s niece. She was 
watching him and admiring, no doubt, his thin face and 
regular features, his fair hair and sparkling eyes. I, as 
I gave him my hand, was thinking of Mme. Swann and 
Saying to myself with amazement, so far apart, so dif- 
ferent were they in my memory, that I should have 
henceforth to identify her with the “ Lady in pink,” 

M. de Charlus was not long in taking his place by the 
side of Mme. Swann. At every social gathering at which 
he appeared and, contemptuous towards the men, courted 
by the women, promptly attached himself to the smartest 
of the latter, whose garments he seemed almost to put 


366 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


m as an ornament to his own, the Baron’s frock coat 
x swallowtails made one think of a portrait by some 
feat painter of a man dressed in black but having by 
tis side, thrown over a chair, the brilliantly coloured cloak 
vhich he is about to wear at some costume ball. This 
yartnership, generally with some royal lady, secured for 
M. de Charlus various privileges which he liked to enjoy. 
for instance, one result of it was that his hostesses, at 
heatricals or concerts, allowed the Baron alone to have 
1 front seat, in a row of ladies, while the rest of the men 
vere crowded together at the back of the room. And then 
yesides, completely absorbed, it seemed, in repeating, at 
he top of his voice, amusing stories to the enraptured 
ady, M. de Charlus was dispensed from the necessity of 
roing to shake hands with any of the others, was set free, 
n other words, from all social duties. Behind the scented 
Jarrier in which the beauty of his choice enclosed him, 
ie was isolated amid a crowded drawing-room, as, in a 
srowded theatre or concert-hall, behind the rampart of 
4 box; and when anyone came up to greet him, through, 
30 to speak, the beauty of his companion, it was permis- 
ible for him to reply quite curtly and without interrupt- 
‘ng his business of conversation with a lady. Certainly 
Mme. Swann was scarcely of the rank of the people with 
whom he liked thus to flaunt himself. But he professed 
admiration for her, friendship for Swann, he knew that 
she would be flattered by his attentions and was himself 
dattered at being compromised by the prettiest woman 
the room. 

Mme. de Villeparisis meanwhile was not too well pleased 
#0 receive a visit from M. de Charlus. He, while admitting 
serious defects in his aunt’s character, was genuinely fond 


367 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


of her. But every now and then, carried away by angei| 
by an imaginary grievance, he would sit down and writ 
to her, without making any attempt to resist his impulse 
letters full of the most violent abuse, in which he mad 
the most of trifling incidents which until then he seeme| 
never even to have noticed. Among other examples I ma’ 
instance the following, which my stay at Balbec brough 
to my knowledge: Mme. de Villeparisis, fearing that sh’ 
had not brought enough money with her to Balbec ti 
enable her to prolong her holiday there, and not caring 
since she was of a thrifty disposition and shrank fron 
unnecessary expenditure, to have money sent to her fron| 
Paris, had borrowed three thousand francs from M. di 
Charlus. A month later, annoyed, for some trivial reason) 
with his aunt, he asked her to repay him this sum by 
telegraph. He received two thousand nine hundred anc 
ninety-odd francs. Meeting his aunt a few days later Ir 
Paris, in the course of a friendly conversation, he drey 
her attention, with the utmost politeness, to the mistak: 
that her banker had made when sending the money. “ Bu 
there was no mistake,” replied Mme. de Villeparisis, “ thd 
money order cost six francs seventy-five.” “Oh, of course! 
if it was intentional, it is all right,” said M. de Charlus| 
“I mentioned it only in case you didn’t know, because 
in that case, if the bank had done the same thing with) 
anyone who didn’t know you as well as I do, it might 
have led to unpleasantness.” “ No, no, there was no mis- 
take.” “After all, you were quite right,” M. de Charlus 
concluded easily, stooping to kiss his aunt’s hand. And, 
in fact he bore no resentment and was only amused at 
this little instance of her thrift. But some time afterwards, 
imagining that, in a family matter, his aunt had been 


368 
, 4 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


rying to get the better of him and had “worked up a 
egular conspiracy” against him, as she took shelter, 
oolishly enough, behind the lawyers with whom he sus- 
rected her of having plotted to undo him, he had written 
er a letter boiling over with insolence and rage. “I shall 
lot be satisfied with having my revenge,” he added as 
, postscript; “I shall take care to make you a laughing- 
tock. To-morrow I shall tell everyone the story of the 
‘noney order and the six francs seventy-five you kept back 
‘rom me out of the three thousand I lent you; I shall 
lisgrace you publicly.” Instead of so doing, he had gone 
‘o his aunt the next day to beg her pardon, having already 
jegretted a letter in which he had used some really terrible 
anguage. But apart from this, to whom could he have 
lold the story of the money order? Seeking no longer 
vengeance but a sincere reconciliation, now was the time 
‘or him to keep silence. But already he had repeated the 
tory everywhere, while still on the best of terms with his 
aunt; he had told it without any malice, as a joke, and 
Decause he was the soul of indiscretion. He had repeated 
the story, but without Mme. de Villeparisis’s knowledge. 
With the result that, having learned from his letter that 
ae intended to disgrace her by making public a transac- 
sion in which he had told her with his own lips that she 
jaad acted rightly, she concluded that he had been deceiv- 
wng her from the first, and had lied when he pretended 
to be fond of her. This storm had now died down, but 
neither of them knew what opinion exactly the other had 
of her or him. This sort of intermittent quarrel is of 
‘course somewhat exceptional. Of a different order were 
the quarrels of Bloch and his friends. Of a different order 
‘again were those of M. de Charlus, as we shall presently 


‘ 369 x 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


see, with people wholly unlike Mme. de Villeparisis. Ir 
spite of which we must bear in mind that the opinion; 
which we hold of one another, our relations with friend; 
and kinsfolk are in no sense permanent, save in appear. 
ance, but are as eternally fluid as the sea itself. Wheney 
all the rumours of divorce between couples who have al 
ways seemed so perfectly united and will soon afterward: 
speak of one another with affection, hence all the terribk 
things said by one friend of another from whom we sup: 
posed him to be inseparable and with whom we shal 
find him once more reconciled before we have had time t 
recover from our surprise; all the ruptures of alliances 
after so short a time, between nations. 

“I say, my uncle and Mme. Swann are getting warn 
over there!” remarked Saint-Loup. “ And look at Mamm: 
in the innocence of her heart going across to distur 
them. To the pure all things are pure, I suppose!” | 

I studied M. de Charlus. The tuft of his grey hair 
his eye, the brow of which was raised by his monoel 
to emit a smile, the red flowers in his buttonhole formed 
so to speak, the three mobile apices of a convulsive an 
striking triangle. I had not ventured to bow to him, fo 
he had given me no sign of recognition. And yet, albet 
he had not turned his head in my direction, I was con: 
vinced that he had seen me; while he repeated some sto 
to Mme. Swann, whose sumptuous, pansy-coloured cloal 
floated actually over the Baron’s knee, his roving eye, like 


the “tecs ” to appear, had certainly explored every cornei 
of the room and taken note of all the people who wer 
in it. M. de Chatellerault came up to bid him good da 
without any indication on M. de Charlus’s face that h 


370 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


‘ad seen the young Duke until he was actually standing 
1 front of him. In this way, in fairly numerous gatherings 
uch as this, M. de Charlus kept almost continuously 
n show a smile without any definite direction or particular 
bject, which, pre-existing before the greetings of new 
irrivals, found itself, when these entered its zone, devoid 
f any indication of friendliness towards them. Never- 
heless, it was obviously my duty to go across and speak 
o Mme. Swann. But as she was not certain whether I 
Jready knew Mme. de Marsantes and M. de Charlus, she 
vas distinctly cold, fearing no doubt that I might ask 
ier to introduce me to them. I then made my way to 
“i. de Charlus, and at once regretted it, for though he 
ould not have helped seeing me he shewed no sign what- 
‘oever. As I stood before him and bowed I found stands 
vut from his body, which it prevented me from approach- 
ag by the full length of his outstretched arm, a finger 
vidowed, one eld have said, of an episcopal ring, of 
vhich he appeared to be offering, for the kiss of the pare 
ul, the consecrated site, and I was made to appear to 
lave penetrated, Meh’ leave from the Baron and by 
mM act of trespass for which he would hold me per- 
aanently responsible, the anonymous and vacant disper- 
jon of his smile. This coldness was hardly of a kind to 
mcourage Mme. Swann to melt from hers. 

_“ How tired and worried you look,” said Mme. de Mar- 
jantes to her son who had come up to greet M. de 
Zharlus. 

_ And indeed the expression in Robert’s eyes seemed 
very minute to reach a depth from which it rose at once 
ike a diver who has touched bottom. This bottom which 
turt Robert so when he touched it that he left it at once, 


371 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


to return to it a moment later, was the thought that he 
had quarrelled with his mistress. | 

“ Never mind,” his mother went on, stroking his cheek 
“never mind; it’s good to see my little boy again.” 

But this show of affection seeming to irritate Rober 
Mme. de Marsantes led her son away to the other en 
of the room where in an alcove hung with yellow sill 
a group of Beauvais armchairs massed their violet-hue 
tapestries like purple irises in a field of buttercups. Mme 
Swann, finding herself alone and having realised that 
was a friend of Saint-Loup, beckoned to me to come ani 
sit beside her. Not having seen her for so long I did no 
know what to talk to her about. I was keeping an ey 
on my hat, among the crowd of hats that littered th 
carpet, and I asked myself with a vague curiosity t 
whom one of them could belong which was not that o 
the Duc de Guermantes and yet in the lining of whic! 
a capital ‘G’ was surmounted by a ducal coronet. I kney 
who everyone in the room was, and could not think ¢ 
anyone whose hat this could possibly be. 

“What a pleasant man M. de Norpois is,” I said t 
Mme. Swann, looking at the Ambassador. “It is tru 
Robert de Saint-Loup says he’s a pest, but...” 

“He is quite right,” she replied. | 

Seeing from her face that she was thinking of somethin 
which she was keeping from me, I plied her with ques 
tions. For the satisfaction of appearing to be greatly take 
up by some one in this room where she knew hardl 
anyone, she took me into a corner. | 

“I am sure this is what M. de Saint-Loup meant, 
she began, “but you must never tell him I said so, fe 
he would think me indiscreet, and I value his esteer 


372 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 

sty highly; I am an ‘honest Injun,’ don’t you know. 
he other day, Charlus was dining at the Princesse de 
uermantes’s; I don’t know how it was, but your name 
as mentioned. M. de Norpois seems to have told them— 
's all too silly for words, don’t go and worry yourself to 
zath over it, nobody paid any attention, they all knew 
ily too well the mischievous tongue that said it—that 
ou were a hypocritical little flatterer.” 

‘I have recorded a long way back my stupefaction at 
1e discovery that a friend of my father, such as M. de 
lorpois was, could have expressed himself thus in speak- 
ig of me. I was even more astonished to learn that my 
motion on that evening long ago when I had asked him 
bout Mme. Swann and Gilberte was known to the Prin- 
esse de Guermantes, whom I imagined never to have 
eard of my existence. Each of our actions, our words, 
ur attitudes is cut off from the “ world”, from the people 
tho have not directly perceived it, by a medium the per- 
aeability of which is of infinite variation and remains 
nknown to ourself; having learned by experience that 
ome important utterance which we eagerly hoped would 
e disseminated (such as those so enthusiastic speeches 
hich I used at one time to make to all comers and on 
very occasion on the subject of Mme. Swann) has found 
self, often simply on account of our anxiety, immedi- 
‘tely hidden under a bushel, how immeasurably less do 
we suppose that some tiny word, which we ourself have 
orgotten, or else a word never uttered by us but formed 
m its course by the imperfect refraction of a different 
vord, can be transported without ever halting for any 
ibstacle to infinite distances—in the present instance to 
she Princesse de Guermantes—and succeed in diverting 


373 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


at our expense the banquet of the gods. What we actual] 
recall of our conduct remains unknown to our neare 
neighbour; what we have forgotten that we ever said, ¢ 
indeed what we never did say flies to provoke hilarit 
even in another planet, and the image that other peop 
form of our actions and behaviour is no more like th; 
which we form of them ourself, than is like an origini 
drawing a spoiled copy in which, at one point, for a blac 
line, we find an empty gap, and for a blank space a 
unaccountable contour. It may be, all the same, that wh: 
has not been transcribed is some non-existent featu 
which we behold merely in our purblind self-esteem, an 
that what seems to us added is indeed a part of oursel 
but so essential a part as to have escaped our notic 
So that this strange print which seems to us to have § 
little resemblance to ourself bears sometimes the sam 
stamp of truth, scarcely flattering, indeed, but profoun 
and useful, as a photograph taken by X-rays. Not th: 
that is any reason why we should recognise ourself j 
it. A man who is in the habit of smiling in the glas 
at his handsome face and stalwart figure, if you shew hi 
their radiograph, will have, face to face with that rosar 
of bones, labelled as being the image of himself, t 
same suspicion of error as the visitor to an art galler 
who, on coming to the portrait of a girl, reads in hi 
catalogue: “ Dromedary resting.” Later on, this discr 
pancy between our portraits, according as it was our ow 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


an wees were to reveal them with the warning: 
This is you.” 

A few years earlier I should have been only too glad 

5 tell Mme. Swann in what connexion I had fawned 
pon M. de Norpois, since the connexion had been my 
esire to know her. But I no longer felt this desire, I 
ras no longer in love with Gilberte. On the other hand 
had not succeeded in identifying Mme. Swann with the 
ady in pink of my childhood. Accordingly I spoke of the 
Toman who was on my mind at the moment. 
= Did you see the Duchesse de Guermantes just now: 
asked Mme. Swann. 
But since the Duchess did not bow to Mme, Swann 
vhen they met, the latter chose to appear to regard 
‘er as a person of no importance, whose presence in a 
oom one did not even remark. 
~“T don’t know; I didn’t realise her,” she replied sourly, 
ising an expression borrowed from England. 
I was anxious nevertheless for information with regard 
ot only to Mme. de Guermantes but to all the people 
vho came in contact with her, and (for all the world like 
Bloch), with the tactlessness of people who seek in their 
‘onversation not to give pleasure to others but to elucidate, 
‘rom sheer egoism, facts that are interesting to themselves, 
n my effort to form an exact idea of the life of Mme. de 
suermantes I questioned Mme. de Villeparisis about 
Mme. Leroi. 

“Oh, yes, I know who’ you mean,” she replied with an 
iffectation of contempt, “the daughter of those rich tim- 
ver people. I’ve heard that she’s begun to go about quite 
t lot lately, but I must explain to you that I am rather 
oid now to make new acquaintances. I have known such 


375 


5°99 


| 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


interesting, such delightful people in my time that realh 
I do not believe Mme. Leroi would be any addition t 
what I already have.” Mme. de Marsantes, who was play 
ing lady in waiting to the Marquise, presented me t 
the Prince, and, while she was still doing so, M. de Nor 
pois also presented me in the most glowing terms. Perhap 
he found it convenient to do me a courtesy which coul 
in no way damage his credit since I had just been pre 
sented, perhaps it was because he thought that a foreigner 
even so distinguished a foreigner, was unfamiliar wit 
French society and might think that he was having in 
troduced to him a young man of fashion, perhaps t 
exercise one of his prerogatives, that of adding the weigh 
of his personal recommendation as an Ambassador, o 
in his taste for the archaic to revive in the Prince’s honou: 
the old custom, flattering to his rank, that two sponsor! 
were necessary if one wished to be presented. i 

Mme. de Villeparisis appealed to M. de Norpois, feel 
ing it imperative that I should have his assurance tha 
she had nothing to regret in not knowing Mme. Leroi. 

“Am I not right, M. 1’? Ambassadeur, Mme. Leroi i 
quite uninteresting, isn’t she, quite out of keeping witl 
the people who come here; I was quite right not to make 
friends with her, wasn’t I?” 

Whether from independence or because he was tired 
M. de Norpois replied merely in a bow full of respec 
but devoid of meaning. 

“ Sir,’ went on Mme. de Villeparisis with a laugh 
“there are some absurd people in the world. Would youl 
believe that I had a visit this afternoon from a gentlemarfl 
who tried to persuade me that he found more pleasure ir 
kissing my hand than a young woman’s? ” 


376 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


I guessed at once that this was Legrandin. M. de Nor- 
ois smiled with a slight quiver of the eyelid, as though 
uch a remark had been prompted by a concupiscence so 
atural that one could not find fault with the person 
tho had uttered it, almost as though it were the begin- 
ing of a romance which he was prepared to forgive, if 
ot to encourage, with the perverse indulgence of a Voise- 
on or the younger Crébillon. 

_“Many young women’s hands would be incapable of 
wing what I see there,” said the Prince, pointing to 
Ame. de Villeparisis’s unfinished water-colours. And he 
sked her whether she had seen the flower paintings by 
fantin-Latour which had recently been exhibited. 

“They are of the first order, and indicate, as people 
ay nowadays, a fine painter, one of the masters of the 
yalette,” declared M. de Norpois; “I consider, all the 
ame, that they stand no comparison with these, in which 
| find it easier to recognise the colouring of the flower.” 
_ Even supposing that the partiality of an old lover, the 
iabit of flattering people, the critical standard admissible 
na small circle had dictated this speech to the ex-Am- 
yassador, it proved upon what an absolute vacuum of 
rue taste the judgment of people in society is based, 
jo arbitrary that the smallest trifle can make it rush to 
the wildest absurdities, on the way to which it is stopped, 
aeld up by no genuinely felt impression. 

“T claim no credit for knowing about flowers, I’ve lived 
all my life among the fields,” replied Mme. de Villeparisis 
modestly. “ But,” she added graciously, turning to the 
Prince, “ If I did, when I was quite a girl, form a rather 
more serious idea of them than children generally do in 
the country, I owe that to a distinguished fellow-country- 


O47 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


man of yours, Herr von Schlegel. I met him at Broglie 
when I was staying there once with my aunt Cordeliz 
(Marshal de Castellane’s wife, don’t you know?). I re 
member so well M. Lebrun, M. de Salvandy, M. Doudan 
getting him to talk about flowers. I was only a little girl 
I wasn’t able to follow all he said. But he liked playing 
with me, and when he went back to your country he sen 
me a beautiful botany book to remind me of a drive we 
took together in a phaeton to the Val Richer, when ] 
fell asleep on his knee. I have got the book still, and i 
taught me to observe many things about flowers whick 
I should not have noticed otherwise. When Mme. d 
Barante published some of Mme. de Broglie’s letters 
charming and affected like herself, I hoped to find amon 
them some record of those conversations with Herr vor 
Schlegel. But she was a woman who looked for nothing 
from nature but arguments in support of religion.” 

Robert called me away to the far end of the roo 
where he and his mother were. 

“ You have been good to me,” I said, “ how can I thank 
you? Can we dine together to-morrow? ” 

“To-morrow? Yes, if you like, but it will have to b 
with Bloch. I met him just now on the doorstep; he was 
rather stiff with me at first because I had quite forgotten 
to answer his last two letters. (At least, he didn’t tell m 
that that was what had annoyed him, but I guessed it.) 
But after that he was so friendly to me that I simply 
can’t disappoint him. Between ourselves, on his side at 
least, I can feel it’s a life and death friendship.” Nor d 
I consider that Robert was altogether mistaken. Furious 
detraction was often, with Bloch, the effect of a keen 
affection which he had supposed to be unreturned. And 


378 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


s he had little power of imagining the lives of other 
eople, and never dreamed that one might have been ill, 
i away from home, or otherwise occupied, a week’s 
ilence was at once interpreted by him as meaning a 
'eliberate coldness. And so I have never believed that 
is most violent outbursts as a friend, or in later years 
is a writer, went very deep. They rose to a paroxysm if 
me replied to them with an icy dignity, or by a platitude 
hich encouraged him to redouble his onslaught, but 
Helded often to a warmly sympathetic attitude. “As for 
yeing good,” went on Saint-Loup, “you say I have been 
0 you, but I haven’t been good at all, my aunt tells me 
hat it’s you who avoid her, that you never said a word 
o her. She wondered whether you had anything against 
ser.” 

Fortunately for myself, if I had been taken in by this 
peech, our departure, which I believed to be imminent, 
or Balbec would have prevented my making any attempt 
o see Mme. Guermantes again, to assure her that I had 
jothing against her, and so to put her under the necessity 
f proving that it was she who had something against me. 
3ut I had only to remind myself that she had not even 
offered to let me see her Elstirs. Besides, this was not 
4 disappointment; I had never expected her to begin 
alking to me about them; I knew that I did not appeal 
co her, that I need have no hope of ever making her 
ike me; the most that I had been able to look forward 
o was that, thanks to her kindness, I might there and 
chen receive, since I should not be seeing her again before 
{left Paris, an entirely pleasing impression, which I could 
take with me to Balbec indefinitely prolonged, intact, 
mstead of a memory broken by anxiety and sorrow. 


iad 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


Mme. de Marsantes kept on interrupting her conversa 
tion with Robert to tell me how often he had spoken t 
her about me, how fond he was of me; she treated m 
with a deference which almost hurt me because I fel 
it to be prompted by her fear of being embroiled, or 
my account, with this son whom she had not seen al 
day, with whom she was eager to be alone, and ove 
whom she must accordingly have supposed that the in 
fluence which she wielded was not equal to and mus: 
conciliate mine. Having heard me, earlier in the after 
noon, make some reference to Bloch’s uncle, M. Nissin 
Bernard, Mme. de Marsantes inquired whether it was hi 
who had at one time lived at Nice. 

“In that case, he knew M. de Marsantes there before 
our marriage,” she told me. “ My husband used ofter 
to speak of him as an excellent man, with such a delicate 
generous nature.” | 

“To think that for once in his life he wasn’t lying! It? 
incredible,” would have been Bloch’s comment. 

All this time I should have liked to explain to Mme. de 
Marsantes that Robert felt infinitely more affection foi 
her than for myself, and that had she shewn any hostility 
towards me it was not in my nature to attempt to set 
him against her, to detach him from her. But now tha 
Mme. de Guermantes had left the room, I had more 
leisure to observe Robert, and I noticed then for the first 
time that, once again, a sort of flood of anger seemed tc 
be coursing through him, rising to the surface of his 
stern and sombre features. I was afraid lest, remember: 
ing the scene in the theatre that afternoon, he might b 
feeling humiliated in my presence at having allowed 
himself to be treated so harshly by his mistress without 


380 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


aking any rejoinder. 

‘Suddenly he broke away from his mother, who had put 
er arm round his neck, and, coming towards me, led 
te behind the little flower-strewn counter at which Mme. 
e Villeparisis had resumed her seat, making a sign to 
1e to follow him into the smaller room. I was hurrying 
fter him when M. de Charlus, who must have supposed 
aat I was leaving the house, turned abruptly from Prince 
on Faffenheim, to whom he had been talking, and made 
rapid circuit which brought him face to face with me. 
saw with alarm that he had taken the hat in the lining 
f which were a capital ‘G’ and a ducal coronet. In the 
oorway into the little room he said, without looking 
t me: 

“ As I see that you have taken to going into society, 
‘ou must do me the pleasure of coming to see me. But 
’s a little complicated,” he went on with a distracted, 
alculating air, as if the pleasure had been one that he 
vas afraid of not securing again once he had let slip the 
portunity of arranging with me the means by which 
t might be realised. “I am very seldom at home; you will 
lave to write to me. But I should prefer to explain things 
so you more quietly. I am just going. Will you walk a 
short way with me? I shall only keep you a moment.” 
“You’ld better take care, sir,’ I warned him; “ you 
aave picked up the wrong hat by mistake.” 

“Do you want to stop me taking my own hat?” I as- 
sumed, a similar mishap having recently occurred to my- 
self, that someone else having taken his hat he had seized 
upon one at random, so as not to go home bare-headed, 
and that I had placed him in a difficulty by exposing his 
strategem. I told him that I must say a few words to 


381 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


Saint-Loup. “He is still talking to that idiot the Duc d 
Guermantes,” I added. “ That really is charming; I sha 
tell my brother.” “Oh! you think that would interes 
M. de Charlus?” (I imagined that, if he had a brother 
that brother must be called Charlus also. Saint-Loup ha 
indeed explained his family tree to me at Balbec, but 
had forgotten the details.) “ Who has been talking to yo 
about M. de Charlus?” replied the Baron in an arrogan 
tone. “Go to Robert.” 

“I hear,” he went on, “that you took part this morn 
ing in one of those orgies that he has with a womat 
who is disgracing him. You would do well to use you: 
influence with him to make him realise the pain he i 
causing his poor mother, and all of us, by dragging ou 
name in the dirt.” i 

I should have liked to reply that at this degrading 
luncheon the conversation had been entirely about Emer 
son, Ibsen and Tolstoy, and that the young woman hac 
lectured Robert to make him drink nothing but water 
In the hope of bringing some balm to Robert, whose 
pride had, I felt, been wounded, I sought to find an excuse 
for his mistress. I did not know that at that moment, 
in spite of his anger with her, it was on himself that h 
was heaping reproaches. But it always happens, even i 
quarrels between a good man and a worthless woman, and 
when the right is all on one side, that some trifle crop 
up which enables the woman to appear not to have bee 
in the wrong on one point. And as she ignores all the 
other points, the moment the man begins to feel the nee 
of her company, or is demoralised by separation from her 
his weakness will make his conscience more exacting, h 
will remember the absurd reproaches that have been 


382 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


ang at him and will ask himself whether they have not 
yme foundation in fact. 

“ve come to the conclusion I was wrong about that 
atter of the necklace,” Robert said to me. “ Of course, 
never meant for a moment to do anything wrong, but, 
know very well, other people don’t look at things in the 
ime way as oneself. She had a very hard time when 
ie was young. In her eyes, I was bound to appear just 
ie rich man who thinks he can get anything he wants 
ith his money, and with whom a poor person cannot 
ompete, whether in trying to influence Boucheron or in 
lawsuit. Of course she has been horribly cruel to me, 
then I have never thought of anything but her good. 
ut I do see clearly, she believes that I wanted to make 
er feel that one could keep a hold on her with money, 
nd that’s not true. And she’s so fond of me; what must 
he be thinking of me? Poor darling, if you only knew, 
he has such charming ways, I simply can’t tell you, 
he has often done the most adorable things for me. 
low wretched she must be feeling now! In any case, 
thatever happens in the long run, I don’t want to let 
er think me a cad; I shall dash off to Boucheron’s and 
et the necklace. You never know; very likely when she 
2es me with it, she will admit that she’s been in the 
rong. Don’t you see, it’s the idea that she is suffering 
t this moment that I can’t bear. What one suffers one- 
lf one knows; that’s nothing. But with her—to say to 
meself that his suffering and not to be able to form 
ny idea of what she feels—I think I shall go mad in a 
ainute—I’ld much rather never see her again than let 
‘er suffer. She can be happy without me, @; she must; 
hat’s all I ask. Listen; you know, to me everything that 


383 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST | 


concerns her is enormously important, it becomes some. 
thing cosmic; I shall run to the jeweller’s and then g¢ 
and ask her to forgive me. But until I get down there 
what will she be thinking of me? If she could only kno 
that I was on my way! What about your going dows 
there and telling her? For all we know, that might settl 
the whole business. Perhaps,” he went on with a smile 
as though he hardly ventured to believe in so idyllic ¢ 
possibility, “ we can all three dine together in the country, 
But we can’t tell yet. I never know how to handle her 
Poor child, I shall perhaps only hurt her more than ever 
Besides, her decision may be irrevocable.” 

Robert swept me back to his mother. 

“Good-bye,” he said to her. “I’ve got to go now. |] 
don’t know when I shall get leave again. Probably not 
for a month. I shall write as soon as I know myself.” 

Certainly Robert was not in the least of the type o 
son who, when he goes out with his mother, feels that 
an attitude of exasperation towards her ought to balance 
the smiles and bows which he bestows on strangers, 
| Nothing is more common than this odious form of ven: 
| geance on the part of those who appear to believe that 
_Tudeness to one’s own family is the natural complement 
| to one’s ceremonial behaviour.| Whatever the wretched 
mother may say, her son, as though he had been take 
to the house against his will and wished to make het 
pay dearly for-his presence, refutes immediately, wit 
an ironical, precise, cruel contradiction, the timidly ven- 
tured assertion; the mother at once conforms, though 
without thereby disarming him, to the opinion of this 
superior being of whom she will continue to boast t 
everyone, when he is not present, as having a charmin 


384 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


iature, and who all the same spares her none of his 
ceenest thrusts. Saint-Loup was not at all like this; but 
he anguish which Rachel’s absence provoked in him 
wrought it about that, for different reasons, he was no less 
iarsh with his mother than the sons I have been describ- 
ng are with theirs. And as she listened to him I saw 
he same throb, like that of a mighty wing, which Mme. 
le Marsantes had been unable to repress when her son 
irst entered the room, convulse her whole body once 
igain; but this time it was an anxious face, eyes wide 
vith grief that she fastened on him. 

“What, Robert, you’re going away? Seriously? My 
ittle son! The one day I’ve seen anything of you!” 
_And then quite softly, in the most natural tone, in a 
foice from which she strove to banish all sadness so as 
tot to inspire her son with a pity which would perhaps 
iave been painful to him, or else useless and might serve 
mly to irritate him, like an argument prompted by plain 
ommon sense she added: 

_ “You know, it’s not at all nice of you.” 

_ But to this simplicity she added so much timidity, to 
hew him that she was not trespassing on his freedom, 
much affection, so that he should not reproach her 
with spoiling his pleasures, that Saint-Loup could not 
ail to observe in himself as it were the possibility of a 
imilar wave of affection, that was to say an obstacle to 
ais spending the evening with his lady. And so he grew 
mgry: 

“It’s unfortunate, but, nice or not, that’s how it is.” 

And he heaped on his mother the reproaches which no 
loubt he felt that he himself perhaps deserved; thus it is 
hat egoists have always the last word; having laid down 


I 385 ne 


“ 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


at the start that their determination is unshakeable, th 
more the sentiment in them to which one appeals to mak 
them abandon it is touched, the more fault they find, ne 
with themselves who resist the appeal but with thos 
persons who put them under the necessity of resisting it 
with the result that their own firmness may be carried t 
the utmost degree of cruelty, which only aggravates a! 
the more in their eyes the culpability of the person wh 
is so indelicate as to be hurt, to be in the right, and t 
cause them thus treacherously the pain of acting agains 
their natural instinct of pity. But of her own accor 
Mme. de Marsantes ceased to insist, for she felt that sh 
would not be able to keep him. | 

“T shall leave you here,” he said to me, “but your 
not to keep him long, Mamma, because he’s got to g 
somewhere else in a minute.” 

I was fully aware that my company could not affor 
any pleasure to Mme. de Marsantes, but I preferred, b 
not going with Robert, not to let her suppose that I wa 
involved in these pleasures which deprived her of hin 
I should have liked to find some excuse for her son’s con 
duct, less from affection for him than from pity for hei 
But it was she who spoke first: 

“Poor boy,” she began, “I am sure I must have hur 
him dreadfully. You see, Sir, mothers are such selfis 
creatures, after all he hasn’t many pleasures, he comes § 
little to Paris. Oh, dear, if he hadn’t gone already 
should have liked to stop him, not to keep him of cours 
but just to tell him that I’m not vexed with him, tha 
I think he was quite right. Will you excuse me if I g 
and look over the staircase? ” 

I accompanied her there. 


386 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


“Robert! Robert!” she called. “No; he’s gone; we 
-e too late.” 

At that moment I would as gladly have undertaken 
mission to make Robert break with his mistress as, 
few hours earlier, to make him go and live with her 
together. In one case Saint-Loup would have regarded 
te as a false friend, in the other his family would have 
uled me his evil genius. Yet I was the same man, at an 
iterval of a few hours. 

‘We returned to the drawing-room. Seeing that Saint- 
oup was not with us, Mme. de Villeparisis exchanged 
ith M. de Norpois that dubious, derisive and not too 
itying glance with which people point out to one another 
1 over-jealous wife or an over-loving mother (spectacles 
hich to outsiders are amusing), as much as to say: 
‘There now, there’s been trouble.” 

| Robert went to his mistress, taking with him the splen- 
id ornament which, after what had been said on both 
des, he ought not to have given her. But it came to the 
ume thing, for she would not look at it, and even after 
ieir reconciliation he could never persuade her to accept 
. Certain of Robert’s friends thought that these proofs 
f disinterestedness which she furnished were deliberately 
lanned to draw him closer to her. And yet she was not 
reedy about money, except perhaps to be able to spend 
‘without thought. I have seen her bestow recklessly on 
eople whom she believed to be in need the most in- 
msate charity. “At this moment,” Robert’s friends 
‘ould say to him, seeking to balance by their ieee: 
‘ords a Be ected action on Rachel’s part, “at this 
toment she will be in the promenade at the Folies- 
ergeres. She’s an enigma, that girl is, a regular sphinx.” 


387 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


After all, how many women who are not disintereste 
since they. are kept by men, have we not seen, with | 
delicacy that flowers from their sordid existence, set wit 
their own hands a thousand little limits to the generosit 
of their lovers? 

Robert knew of scarcely any of the infidelities of h’ 
mistress, and tortured his mind over what were me 
nothings compared with the real life of Rachel, a li! 
which began every day only after he had left her. H 
knew of scarcely any of these infidelities. One could hay 
told him of them without shaking his confidence in Rachel 
For it is a charming law of nature which manifests itse 
in the heart of the most complex social organisms, thi 
we live in perfect ignorance of those we love.{On of 
side of the mirror the lover says to himself: “ She is a 
angel, she will never yield herself to me, I may as we 
die—and yet she does care for me; she cares so muc 
that perhaps—but no, it can never possibly happen 
And in the exaltation of his desire, in the anguish of wai’ 
ing, what jewels he flings at the feet of this woman, ho 
he runs to borrow money to save her from inconvenienci 
meanwhile, on the other side of the screen, through whic 
their conversation will no more carry than that whic 
visitors exchange outside the glass wall of an aquariur 
the public are saying: “You don’t know her? I cor 
gratulate you, she has robbed, in fact ruined I don 
know how many men. There isn’t a worse girl in Pari 
She’s a common swindler. And cunning isn’t the word!) 
And perhaps the public are not entirely wrong in the! 
use of the last epithet, for indeed the sceptical man wh 
is not really in love with the woman and whom she mere} 
attracts says to his friends: “No, no, my dear felloy 


388 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


she is not in the least a prostitute; I don’t say she hasn’t 
nad an adventure or two in her time, but she’s not a 
woman one pays, she’d be a damned sight too expensive 
f£she was. With her it’s fifty thousand francs or nothing.” 
Well, he has spent fifty thousand francs on her, he has 
had her once, but she (finding, moreover, a willing ac- 
complice in the man himself) has managed to persuade 
him that he is one of those who have had her for nothing. 
Such is society, in which every one of us has two aspects, 
in which the most obvious, the most notorious faults will 
mever be known by a certain other person save embedded 
in, under the protection of a shell, a smooth cocoon, a deli- 
cious curiosity of nature. There were in Paris two thor- 
oughly respectable men to whom Saint-Loup no longer 
bowed, and could not refer without a tremor in his voice, 
calling them exploiters of women: this was because they 
had both been ruined by Rachel. 

“I blame myself for one thing only,” Mme. de Marsan- 
tes murmured in my ear, “and that was my telling him 
that he wasn’t nice to me. He, such an adorable, unique 
son, there’s no one else like him in the world, the only 
time I see him, to have told him he wasn’t nice to me, I 
would far rather he’d beaten me, because I am sure that 
whatever pleasure he may be having this evening, and 
he hasn’t many, will be spoiled for him by that unfair 
word. But, Sir, I mustn’t keep you, since you’re in a 
hurry.” 

Anxiously, Mme. de Marsantes bade me good-bye. 
These sentiments bore upon Robert; she was sincere. But 
she ceased to be, to become a great lady once more. 

“TI have been so interested, so glad to have this little 
talk with you. Thank you! Thank you!” 


389 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


And with a humble air she fastened on me a look of 
gratitude, of exhilaration, as though my conversation were 
one of the keenest pleasures that she had experienced in 
her life. These charming glances went very well with the 
black flowers on her white skirt; they were those of a great 
lady who knew her business. 

“But I am in no hurry,” I replied; “besides, I mus 
wait for M. de Charlus; I am going with him.” 

Mme. de Villeparisis overheard these last words. They 
appeared to vex her. Had the matter in question not been 
one which could not possibly give rise to such a sentiment, 
it might have struck me that what seemed to be at that 
moment alarmed in Mme. de Villeparisis was her modesty; 
But this hypothesis never even entered my mind. I was 
delighted with Mme. de Guermantes, with Saint-Loup, 
with Mme. de Marsantes, with M. de Charlus, with Mme) 
de Villeparisis; I did not stop to reflect, and I spoke light. 
heartedly and at random. | 

“You’re going from here with my nephew Palaméde?” 
she asked me. | 

Thinking that it might produce a highly favourable im4 
pression on Mme. de Villeparisis if she learned that I was 
on intimate terms with a nephew whom she esteemed sc 
greatly, “He has asked me to go home with him,” I an, 
swered blithely. “I am so glad. Besides, we are greatel 
friends than you think, and I’ve quite made up my ming¢ 
that we’re going to be better friends still.” 

From being vexed, Mme. de Villeparisis seemed to have 
grown anxious. “ Don’t wait for him,” she said to me, witl| 
a preoccupied air. “He is talking to M. de Faffenheim) 
He’s certain to have forgotten what he said to you. Youl¢ 
much better go, now, quickly, while his back is turned.” 


390 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


The first emotion shewn by Mme. de Villeparisis would 
ave suggested, but for the circumstances, offended mod- 
ssty. Her insistence, her opposition might well, if one had 
studied her face alone, have appeared to be dictated by 
virtue. I was not, myself, in any hurry to join Robert and 
iis mistress. But Mme. de Villeparisis seemed to make 
such a point of my going that, thinking perhaps that she 
aad some important business to discuss with her nephew, 
[ bade her good-bye. Next to her M. de Guermantes, 
uperb and Olympian, was ponderously seated. One would 
aave said that the notion, omnipresent in all his members, 
of his vast riches gave him a particular high density, 
as though they had been melted in a crucible into a single 
human ingot to form this man whose value was so 
immense. At the moment of my saying good-bye to him 
he rose politely from his seat, and I could feel the dead 
weight of thirty millions which his old-fashioned French 
oreeding set in motion, raised, until it stood before me. I 
seemed to be looking at that statue of Olympian Zeus 
which Pheidias is said to have cast in solid gold. Such 
was the power that good breeding had over M. de Guer- 
mantes, over the body of M. de Guermantes at least, for 
it had not an equal mastery over the ducal mind. M. de 
Guermantes laughed at his own jokes, but did not unbend 
to other people’s. 

_ As I went downstairs I heard behind me a voice calling 
out to me: 

“So this is how you wait for me, is it?” 

_ It was M. de Charlus. 

“You don’t mind if we go a little way on foot?” he 
asked dryly, when we were in the courtyard. “We can 
walk until I find a cab that suits me.” 


391 


| 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


“You wished to speak to me about something, Sir?’ 

“Oh yes, as a matter of fact there were some things | 
wished to say to you, but I am not so sure now whether i 
shall. As far as you are concerned, I am sure that they, 
might be the starting-point which would lead you to ines. 
timable benefits. But I can see also that they would bring 
into my existence, at an age when one begins to valu¢ 
tranquillity, a great loss of time, great inconvenience. ] 
ask myself whether you are worth all the pains that 
should have to take with you, and I have not the pleasure 
of knowing you well enough to be able to say. Perhaps 
also to you yourself what I could do for you does not, 
appear sufficiently attractive for me to give myself s¢ 
much trouble, for I repeat quite frankly that for me if 
can only be trouble.” 

I protested that, in that case, he must not dream of it, 
This summary end to the discussion did not seem to be tc 
his liking. 

“ That sort of politeness means nothing,” he rebuked 
me coldly. “There is nothing so pleasant as to give one- 
self trouble for a person who is worth one’s while, For the 
best of us, the study of the arts, a taste for old things, 
collections, gardens are all mere ersatz, succedanea, alibis, 
In the heart of our tub, like Diogenes, we cry out for a 
man. We cultivate begonias, we trim yews, as a last re- 
_ Sort, because yews and begonias submit to treatment. But 
we should like to give our time to a plant of human growth, 

if we were sure that he was worth the trouble. That is the 
whole question: you must know something about your-| 
self. Are you worth my trouble or not?” | 

“T would not for anything in the world, Sir, be a cause 
of anxiety to you,” I said to him, “ but so far as I am con- 


392 


o—s 


—_—_— 


i 
| 


i 


———- 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


cerned you may be sure that everything which comes to 
me from you will be a very great pleasure to me. I am 
deeply touched that you should be so kind as to take 
notice of me in this way and try to help me.” 

Greatly to my surprise, it was almost with effusion that 
he thanked me for this speech, slipping his arm through 
mine with that intermittent familiary which had already 
struck me at Balbec, and was in such contrast to the cold- 
ness of his tone. 

“With the want of consideration common at your age,” 
he told me, “you are liable to say things at times which 
would open an unbridgeable gulf between us. What you 
have said just now, on the other hand, is exactly the sort 
of thing that pougees me, and makes me want to do a 
great deal for you.” 

' As he walked arm in arm with me and uttered these 
words, which, albeit tinged with contempt, were so affec- 
jtionate, M. de Charlus now fastened his gaze on me with 
‘that intense fixity which had struck me the first morning, 
when I saw him outside the casino at Balbec, and indeed 
‘many years before that, through the pink hawthorns, 
Standing beside Mme. Swann, whom I supposed then to 
be his mistress, in the park at Tansonville; now let it 
stray around him and examine the cabs which at this time 
of the day were passing in considerable numbers on the 
way to their stables, looking so determinedly at them that 
‘several stopped, the drivers supposing that he wished to 
engage them. But M. de Charlus immediately dismissed 
them. 

“They’re not what I want,” he explained to me, “it’s 
all a question of the colour of their lamps, and the direc- 
tion they’re going in. I hope, Sir,” he went on, “ that you 


393 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


will not in any way misinterpret the purely disinterested 
and charitable nature of the proposal which I am going! 
to make to you.” i) 

I was struck by the similarity of his diction to Swann’s, 
closer now than at Balbec. 

“You have enough intelligence, I suppose, not to} 
imagine that it is from want of society, from any fear ol! 
solitude and boredom that I have recourse to you. I da 
not, as a rule, care to talk about myself, but you may 
possibly have heard—it was alluded to in a leading article| 
in The Times, which made a considerable impression— 
that the Emperor of Austria, who has always honoured| 
me with his friendship, and is good enough to insist on! 
keeping up terms of cousinship with me, declared the other| 
day in an interview which was made public that if the 
Comte de Chambord had had by his side a man as thor-’ 
oughly conversant with the undercurrents of European) 
politics as myself he would be King of France to-day. I 
have often thought, sir, that there was in me, thanks not 
to my own humble talents but to circumstances which you 
may one day have occasion to learn, a sort of secret record, 
of incalculable value, of which I have not felt myself at; 
liberty to make use, personally, but which would be a! 
priceless acquisition to a young man to whom I would! 
hand over in a few months what it has taken me more 
than thirty years to collect, what I am perhaps alone in| 
possessing. I do not speak of the intellectual enjoyment) 
which you would find in learning certain secrets which a, 
Michelet of our day would give years of his life to know, | 
and in the light of which certain events would assume for 
him an entirely different aspect. And I do not speak | 
only of events that have already occurred, but of the chain’ 


394 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


of circumstances.” (This was a favourite expression with 
M. de Charlus, and often, when he used it, he joined his 
hands as if in prayer, but with his fingers stiffened, as 
though to illustrate by their complexity the said circum- 
stances, which he did not specify, and the chain that 
linked them.) “I could give you an explanation that no 
one has dreamed of, not only of the past but of the 
future.” M. de Charlus broke off to question me about 
Bloch, whom he had heard discussed, though without ap- 
pearing to be listening, in his aunt’s drawing-room. And 
with that ironical accent he so skilfully detached what he 
was saying that he seemed to be thinking of something 
else altogether, and to be speaking mechanically, simply 
‘out of politeness. He asked if my friend was young, good 
looking and so forth. Bloch, if he had heard him, would 
have been more puzzled even than with M. de Norpois, 
but for very different reasons, to know whether M. de 
Charlus was for or against Dreyfus. “It is not a bad idea, 
if you wish to learn about life,” went on M. de Charlus 
‘when he had finished questioning me, “ to include among 
‘your friends an occasional foreigner.” I replied that Bloch 
‘was French. “ Indeed,” said M. de Charlus, “ I took him 
‘to be a Jew.” His assertion of this incompatibility made. 
ime suppose that M. de Charlus was more anti-Dreyfusard 
‘than anyone I had met. He protested, however, against 
‘the charge of treason levelled against Dreyfus. But his 
protest took this form: “I understand the newspapers to 
say that Dreyfus has committed a crime against his coun- 
try—so I understand, I pay no attention to the news- 
papers, I read them as I wash my hands, without finding 
that it is worth my while to take any interest in what I 
am doing. In any case, the crime is non-existent, your 


395 


/ 
4 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


friend’s compatriot would have committed a crime if h 
had betrayed Judaea, but what has he to do with France?” 
I pointed out that if there should be a war the Jews 
would be mobilised just as much as anyone else. “ Per 
haps so, and I am not sure that it would not be an im- 
_prudence. If we bring over Senegalese and Malagasies, ] 
hardly suppose that their hearts will be in the task o 
defending France, which is only natural. Your Dreyfu 
might rather be convicted of a breach of the laws of hos- 
pitality. But we need not discuss that. Perhaps you could 
ask your friend to allow me to be present at some grea 
festival in the Temple, at a circumcision, with Jewish 
chants. He might perhaps take a hall, and give me som 
biblical entertainment, as the young ladies of Saint-Cyr 
performed scenes taken from the Psalms by Racine, t 
amuse Louis XIV. You might even arrange parties to giv 
us a good laugh. For instance a battle between your friend 
and his father, in which he would smite him as David 
smote Goliath. That would make quite an amusing farce, 
He might even, while he was about it, deal some stou 
blows at his hag (or, as my old nurse would say, his 
“haggart”) of a mother. That would be an excellent 
show, and would not be unpleasing to us, eh, my youn 
friend, since we like exotic spectacles, and to thrash that 


nurse, whose Molieresque vocabulary he had just quoted, 
and thought to myself that the connexions, hitherto, I 
felt, little studied, between goodness and wickedness in the 


396 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


ame heart, various as they might be, would be an interest- 
ng subject for research. 

I warned him that, anyhow, Mme. Bloch no longer 
.xisted, while as for M. Bloch, I questioned to what extent 
ye would enjoy a sport which might easily result in his 
yeing blinded. M. de Charlus seemed annoyed. “ That,” 
ne said, “is a woman who made a great mistake in dying. . 
As for blinding him, surely the Synagogue is blind, it does 
aot perceive the truth of the Gospel. In any case, think, 
at this moment, when all these unhappy Jews are trem- 
bling before the stupid fury of the Christians, what an 
honour it would be for him to see a man like myself con- 
escend to be amused by their sports.” At this point I 
caught sight of M. Bloch senior, who was coming towards 
us, probably on his way to meet his son. He did not see 
us, but I offered to introduce him to M. de Charlus. I 
}had no conception of the torrent of rage which my words 
lwere to let loose. “Introduce him to me! But you must 
shave singularly little idea of social values! People do not 
get to know me as easily as that. In the present instance, 
‘the awkwardness would be twofold, on account of the 
‘youth of the introducer and the unworthiness of the per- 
‘son introduced. At the most, if I am ever permitted to 
enjoy the Asiatic spectacle which I suggested to you, I 
‘might address to the horrible creature a few words in- 
dicative of generous feeling. But on condition that he 
‘allows himself to be thoroughly thrashed by his son, I 
‘might go so far as to express my satisfaction.” As it hap- 
pened, M. Bloch paid no attention to us. He was occupied 
in greeting Mme. Sazerat with a series of sweeping bows, 
‘which were very favourably received. I was surprised at 
‘this, for in the old days at Combray she had been indig- 


397 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


nant at my parents having young Bloch in the house, gs 
anti-semitic was she then. But Dreyfusism, like a stron{ 
gust of wind, had, a few days before this, wafted M. Bloc 
to her feet. My father’s friend had found Mme. Sazera 
charming and was particularly gratified by the anti-semi 
tism of the lady, which he regarded as a proof of the 
sincerity of her faith and the soundness of her Dreyfusarc 
opinions, and also as enhancing the value of the call whict 
she had authorised him to pay her. He had not even beer 
offended when she had said to him stolidly: “ M. Drumont 
has the impudence to put the Revisionists in the same 
bag as the Protestants and the Jews. A delightful promis: 
cuity!” “ Bernard,” he had said with pride, on reaching 
home, to M. Nissim Bernard, “ you know, she has that 
prejudice!” But M. Nissim Bernard had said nothing, 
only raising his eyes to heaven in an angelic gaze. Sad- 
dened by the misfortunes of the Jews, remembering his 
old friendships with Christians, grown mannered and 
precious with increasing years, for reasons which the 
reader will learn in due course, he had now the air of a 
pre-Raphaelite ghost on to which hair had been incon- 
gruously grafted, like threads in the heart of an opal. 
“All this Dreyfus business,” went on the Baron, still 
clasping me by the arm, “has only one drawback. It de- 
stroys society (I do not say polite society; society has long 
ceased to deserve that laudatory epithet) by the influx o 
Mr. and Mrs. Camels and Camelries and Camelyards, 
astonishing creatures whom I find even in the houses of 
my own cousins, because they belong to the Patrie Fran- 
caise, or the Anti-Jewish, or some such league, as if a 
political opinion entitled one to any social qualification.” 
This frivolity in M. de Charlus brought out his family 


398 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


keness to the Duchesse de Guermantes. I remarked te 
tim on the resemblance. As he appeared to think that I 
lid not know her, I reminded him of the evening at the 
Dpera when he had seemed to be trying to avoid me. He 
issured me with such insistence that he had never even 
een me there that I should have begun to believe him, if 
yresently a trifling ‘ncident had not led me to think that 
M. de Charlus, in his excessive pride perhaps, did not 
‘are to be seen with me. 

“Let us return to yourself,” he said, “and my plans 
for you. There exists among certain men, sirjia’ frees 
nasonry of which I cannot now say more than that it num- 
yers in its ranks four of the reigning sovereigns of Europe. 
Now, the courtiers of one of these are trying to cure him 
of his fancy. That is a very serious matter, and may bring 
us to war. Yes, sir, that is a fact. You remember the 
story of the man who believed that he had the Princess 
of China shut up in a bottle. It was a form of insanity. 
He was cured of it. But as soon as he ceased to be mad 
he became merely stupid. There are maladies which we 
must not seek to cure because they alone protect us from 
others that are more serious. A cousin of mine had 
trouble with his stomach; he could not digest anything. 
{The most learned specialists on the stomach treated him, 
‘with no effect. I took him to a certain doctor (another 
highly interesting man, by the way, of whom I could tell 
‘you a great deal). He guessed at once that the trouble was 
nervousness; he persuaded his patient, ordered him to eat 
whatever he liked quite boldly and assured him that his 
digestion would stand it. But my cousin had nephritis 
also. What the stomach can digest perfectly well the kid- 
neys cease, after a time, to eliminate, and my cousin, in- 


399 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


stead of living to a good old age with an imaginary diseas 
of the stomach which obliged him to keep to a diet, die 
at forty with his stomach cured but his kidneys ruined 
Given a very considerable advantage over people of you 
age, for all one knows, you will perhaps become wha 
some eminent man of the past might have been if a goo 
angel had revealed to him, in the midst of a humanity tha 
knew nothing of them, the secrets of steam and electricity 
Do not be foolish, do not refuse from discretion. Under. 
stand that, if I do you a great service, I expect my rewarc 
from you to be no less great. It is many years now sinc 
people in society ceased to interest me. I have but one 
passion left, to seek to redeem the mistakes of my life by 
conferring the benefit of my knowledge on a soul that is 
still virgin and capable of being inflamed by virtue. I have 
had great sorrows, sir, of which I may tell you perhaps 
some day; I have lost my wife, who was the loveliest, the 
noblest, the most perfect creature that one could dream 
of seeing. I have young relatives who are not—I do not 
say worthy, but who are not capable of accepting the moral 
heritage of which I have been speaking. For all I know, 
you may be he into whose hands it is to pass, he whose 
life I shall be able to direct and to raise to so lofty a plane, 
My own would gain in return. Perhaps in teaching you 
the great secrets of diplomacy I might recover a taste 
for them myself, and begin at last to do things of real 
interest in which you would have an equal share. But 
before I can tell I must see you often, very often, every 
day.” | 

I was thinking of taking advantage of this unexpected 
kindness on M. de Charlus’s part to ask him whether he 
could not arrange for me to meet his sister-in-law when, 


400 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


uddenly, I felt my arm violently jerked, as though by an 
Tectric shock. It was M. de Charlus who had hurriedly 
yithdrawn his arm from mine. Although as he talked 
e had allowed his eyes to wander in all directions he had 
mly just caught sight of M. d’Argencourt, who was com- 
ag towards us from a side street. On seeing us, M. 
’Argencourt appeared worried, cast at me a look of dis- 
rust, almost that look intended for a creature of another 
ace than one’s own with which Mme. de Guermantes had 
uizzed Bloch, and tried to avoid us. But one would have 
aid that M. de Charlus was determined to shew him that 
was not at all anxious not to be seen by him, for he 
alled to him, simply to tell him something that was 
f no importance. And fearing perhaps that M. d’Argen- 
ourt had not recognised me, M. de Charlus informed him 
hat I was a great friend of Mme. de Villeparisis, of 
he Duchesse de Guermantes, of Robert de Saint-Loup, 
nd that he himself, Charlus, was an old friend of my 
randmother, and glad to be able to shew her grandson 
little of the affection that he felt for her. Nevertheless 
observed that M. d’Argencourt, albeit I had barely been 
itroduced to him at Mme. de Villeparisis’s, and M. de 
-harlus had now spoken to him at great length about my 
amily, was distinctly colder to me than he had been in 
he afternoon; and for a long time he shewed the same 
loofness he Ap we met. He watched me now with a 
uriosity in which there was no sign of friendliness, and 
eemed even to have to overcome an instinctive repul- 
ion when, on leaving us, after a moment’s hesitation, he 
eld out a hand to me which he at once withdrew. 

-“T am sorry about that,” said M. de Charlus. “That 
sllow Argencourt, well born but ill bred, more than feeble 


I 401 Zz 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


as a diplomat, an impossible husband, always running aftei 
women like a person in a play, is one of those men why 
are incapable of understanding but perfectly capable o 
destroying the things in life that are really great. I hop 
that our friendship will be one of them, if it is ever to be 
formed, and I hope also that you will honour me by keep: 
ing it—as I shall—well clear of the heels of any of thos 
donkeys who, from idleness or clumsiness or deliberate 
wickedness trample upon what would seem to have beer 
made to endure. Unfortunately, that is the mould in whie 
most of the men one meets have been cast.” . 

“The Duchesse de Guermantes seems to be very clever 
We were talking this afternoon about the possibility o 
war. It appears that she is specially well informed on tha 
subject.” 

“She is nothing of the sort,” replied M. de Charluy 
tartly. “ Women, and most men, for that matter, under 
stand nothing of what I was going to tell you. My sister 
in-law is a charming woman who imagines that we ar 
still living in the days of Balzac’s novels, when wome 
had an influence on politics. Going to her house could a 
present have only a bad effect on you, as for that matte 
going anywhere. That was one of the very things I wa 
just going to tell you when that fool interrupted me. Th 
first sacrifice that you must make for me—I shall clai 
them from you in proportion to the gifts I bestow on yo 
—is to give up going into society. It distressed me thill 
afternoon to see you at that idiotic tea-party. You ma’ 
remind me that I was there myself, but for me it was no} 
a social gathering, it was simply a family visit. Later o 
when you have established your position, if it amuses yo 
to step down for a little into that sort of thing, it may 


402 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


serhaps, do no harm. And then, I need not point out how 
mvaluable I can be to you. The ‘Open Sesame’ to the 
suermantes house and any others that it is worth while 
throwing open the doors of to you, rests with me. I 
hall be the judge, and intend to remain master of the 
\ituation.” 

_I thought I would take advantage of what M. de 
charlus had said about my call on Mme. de Villeparisis 
‘0 try to find out what position exactly she occupied in 
society, but the question took another form on my lips 
han I had intended, and I asked him instead what the 
Villeparisis family was. 

_ “That is absolutely as though you had asked me what 
he Nobody family was,” replied M. de Charlus. “ My 
unt married, for love, a M. Thirion, who was extremely 
ich, for that matter, and whose sisters had married sur- 
yrisingly well; and from that day onwards he called him- 
elf Marquis de Villeparisis. It did no harm to anyone, 
{t the most a little to himself, and very little! What his 
eason was I cannot tell; I suppose he was actually a 
Monsieur de Villeparisis’, a gentleman born at Ville- 
larisis, which as you know is the name of a little place 
mutside Paris. My aunt tried to make out that there was 
uch a Marquisate in the family, she wanted to put things 
a proper footing; I can’t tell you why. When one takes 
“name to which one has no right it is better not to copy 
he regular forms.” 

| Mme. de Villeparisis being merely Mme. Thirion com- \ 
‘leted the fall which had begun in my estimation of her | 
vhen I had seen the composite nature of her party. I felt 
: to be unfair that a woman whose title and name were 
f quite recent origin should be able thus to impose upon 


403 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


her contemporaries, with the prospect of similarly impos 
ing upon posterity, by virtue of her friendships with roya 
personages. Now that she had become once again what 
had supposed her to be in my childhood, a person who hai 
nothing aristocratic about her, these distinguished kin 
folk who gathered round her seemed to remain alien t 
her. She did not cease to be charming to us all. I wen 
occasionally to see her and she sent me little presents fror 
time to time. But I had never any impression that sh 
belonged to the Faubourg Saint-Germain, and if I ha: 
wanted any information about it she would have been o 
of the last people to whom I should have applied. 

“ At present,” went on M. de Charlus, “by going int 
society, you will only damage your position, warp yo 
intellect and character. Also, you must be particularl 
careful in choosing your friends. Keep mistresses, if you 
family have no objection, that doesn’t concern me, inde 
I can only advise it, you young rascal, young rascal w 
will soon have to start shaving,” he rallied me, passing hi 
fingers over my chin. “But the choice of your men friend 
is more important. Eight out of ten young men are litt 
scoundrels, little wretches capable of doing you an injur 
which you will never be able to repair. Wait, now, m 
nephew Saint-Loup is quite a suitable companion for yo 
at a pinch. As far as your future is concerned, he can k 
of no possible use to you, but for that I am sufficient. An 
really, when all’s said and done, as a person to go abou 
with, at times when you have had enough of me, he do 
not seem to present any serious drawback that I know o 
At any rate he is a man, not one of those effeminat 
creatures one sees so many of nowadays, who look like li 
tle renters, and at any moment may bring their innoce 


404 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


ictims to the gallows.” I did not know the meaning of 
ais slang word “renter”; anyone who had known it 
‘ould have been as greatly surprised by his use of it 
is myself. People in society always like talking slang, 
4nd people against whom certain things may be hinted 
ike to shew that they are not afraid to mention them. 
4, proof of innocence in their eyes. But they have lost 
heir sense of proportion, they are no longer capable of 
jealising the point at which a certain pleasantry will 
yvecome too technical, too shocking, will be a proof rather 
f corruption than of simplicity. “ He is not like the rest 
if them; he has nice manners; he is really serious.” 

I could not help smiling at this epithet “serious”, to 
ivhich the intonation that M. de a. gave to it seemed 
yO impart the sense of “virtuous”, of “steady”, as one 
jays of a little shop- girl that she is “serious”. At this 
(moment a cab passed, zigzagging along the street; a young 
jtabman, who had deserted his box, was driving it from 
\nside, where he lay sprawling upon the cushions, ap- 
ioarently half drunk. M. de Charlus instantly stopped him. 
(Lhe driver began to argue: 

; “Which way are you going: 
; “Yours.” This surprised me, for M. de Charlus had 
jalready refused several cabs with similarly coloured lamps. 
\ “ Well, I don’t want to get up on the box. D’you mind 
sif I stay down here: ” 

» “No; but you must put down the hood. Well, think 
over my proposal,” said M. de Charlus, preparing to leave 
ime, “TI give you a few days to consider my offer; write to 
yme. I repeat, I shall need to see you every day, and to 
Hreceive from you guarantees of loyalty, of discretion 
ywhich, for that matter, you do appear, I must say, to 


i 405 


> 29 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


furnish. But in the course of my life I have been so ofte | 
taken in by appearances that I never wish to trust then 
again. Damn it, it’s the least you can expect that befon} 
giving up a treasure I should know into what hands it if 
going to pass. Very well, bear in mind what I’m offeriny 
you; you are like Hercules (though, unfortunately fo 
yourself, you do not appear to me to have quite his mus 
cular development) at the parting of the ways. Try no 
to have to regret all your life not having chosen the way 
that leads to virtue. Hallo!” he turned to the cabmar 
“haven’t you put the hood down? I'll do it myself. « 
think, too, I’ld better drive, seeing the state you appea; 
to be in.” 

He jumped in beside the cabman, took the reins, an 
the horse trotted off. 

As for myself, no sooner had I turned in at our gat 
than I found the pendant to the conversation which I ha 
heard exchanged that afternoon between Bloch and M. de 
Norpois, but in another form, brief, inverted and cruel 
This was a dispute between our butler, who believed it 
Dreyfus, and the Guermantes’, who was an anti-Drey: 
fusard. The truths and counter-truths which came in con 
flict above ground, among the intellectuals of the riva 
Leagues, the Patrie Francaise and the Droits de ? Homme 
were fast spreading downwards into the subsoil of popu} 
lar opinion. M. Reinach was manipulating, by appeals te 
sentiment, people whom he had never seen, while fot 
himself the Dreyfus case simply presented itself to his 
reason as an incontrovertible theory which he proved. ir 
the sequel by the most astonishing victory for rational | 
policy (a victory against France, according to some) thaiff 
the world has ever seen. In two years he replaced a Billoif 


406 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


yy a Clemenceau Ministry, revolutionised public opinion 
‘rom top to bottom, took Picquart from his prison to in- 
stall him, ungrateful, in the Ministry of War. Perhaps this 
-ationalist manipulator of crowds was himself the puppet 
of his ancestry.. When we find that the systems of philos- 
sphy which contain the most truths were dictated to their 
authors, in the last analysis, by reasons of sentiment, how 
are we to suppose that in a simple affair of politics like the 
Dreyfus case reasons of this order may not, unknown to 
the reasoner, have controlled his reason. Bloch believed 
himself to have been led by a logical sequence to choose 
Dreyfusism, yet he knew that his nose, skin and hair had 
been imposed on him by his race. Doubtless the reason 
enjoys more freedom; yet it obeys certain laws which it 
has not prescribed for itself. The case of the Guermantes’ 
butler and our own was peculiar. The waves of the two 
currents of Dreyfusism and anti-Dreyfusism which now 
divided France from end to end were, on the whole, silent, 
but the occasional echoes which they emitted were sincere. 
When you heard anyone in the middle of a conversation 
which was being deliberately kept off the Case announce 
furtively some piece of political news, generally false, but 
always with a hopefulness of its truth, you could induce 
from the nature of his predictions where his heart lay. 
‘Thus there came into conflict on certain points, on one 
side a timid apostolate, on the other a righteous indigna- 
tion. The two butlers whom I heard arguing as I came 
in furnished an exception to the rule. Ours let it be under- 
‘stood that Dreyfus was guilty, the Guermantes’ butler 
that he was innocent. This was done not to conceal their 
personal convictions, but from cunning, and in the keen- 
ness of their rivalry. Our butler, being uncertain whether 


407 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


the fresh trial would be ordered, wished beforehand, in the 
event of failure, to deprive the Duke’s butler of the jOy 
of seeing a just cause vanquished. The Duke’s butlei 
thought that, in the event of a refusal, ours would be 
more indignant at the detention on the Devil’s Isle of ar 
innocent man. The porter looked on. I had the impression 
that it was not he who was the cause of dissension in the 
Guermantes household. 


ourself condemned to live. My grandmother’s attacks 
passed, often enough, unnoticed by the attention which she 
kept always diverted to ourselves. When the pain was 
severe, in the hope of curing it, she would try in vain to, 
understand what the trouble was. If the morbid phe- 
nomena of which her body was the theatre remained 
obscure and beyond the reach of her mind, they were 
clear and intelligible to certain creatures belonging to the 
same natural kingdom as themselves, creatures to which 
the human mind has learned gradually to have recourse 
in order to understand what the body is saying to it, as 


408 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


when a foreigner accosts us we try to find some one be- 
longing to his country who will act as interpreter. These 
2an talk to our body, and tell us if its anger is serious or 
will soon be appeased. Cottard, whom we had called in to 
see my grandmother, and who had infuriated us by asking 
with a dry smile, the moment we told him that she was 
ill: “Ill? You’re sure it’s not what they call a diplo- 
matic’ illness?’ He tried to soothe his patient’s rest- 
lessness by a milk diet. But incessant bowls of milk soup 
gave her no relief, because my grandmother sprinkled 
them liberally with salt (the toxic effects of which were as 
yet, Widal not having made his discoveries, unknown). 
For, medicine being a compendium of the successive and 
contradictory mistakes of medical practitioners, when we 
summon the wisest of them to our aid, the chances are 
that we may be relying on a scientific truth the error of 
which will be recognised in a few years’ time. So that to 
believe in medicine would be the height of folly, if not to 
believe in it were not greater folly still, for from this mass 
of errors there have emerged in the course of time many 
truths. Cottard had told us to take her temperature. A 
thermometer was fetched. Throughout almost all its 
length it was clear of mercury. Scarcely could one make 
out, crouching at the foot of the tube, in its little cell, the 
silver salamander. It seemed dead. The glass reed was 
slipped into my grandmother’s mouth. We had no need 
to leave it there for long; the little sorceress had not been 
slow in casting her horoscope. We found her motionless, 
perched half-way up her tower, and declining to move, 
shewing us with precision the figure that we had asked of 
her, a figure with which all the most careful examination 
that my grandmother’s mind could have devoted to her- 


409 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


self would have been incapable of furnishing her; 101 
degrees. For the first time we felt some anxiety. We shook 
the thermometer well, to erase the ominous line, as thoug 
we were able thus to reduce the patient’s fever simul- 
taneously with the figure shewn on the scale. Alas, it was 
only too clear that the little sibyl, unreasoning as she was, 
had not pronounced judgment arbitrarily, for the next day, 
scarcely had the thermometer been inserted between my 
grandmother’s lips when almost at once, as though with a 
single bound, exulting in her certainty and in her intuition 
of a fact that to us was imperceptible, the little prophetess 
had come to a halt at the same point, in an implacable 
immobility, and pointed once again to that figure 1o1 with 
the tip of her gleaming wand. Nothing more did she tell 
us; in vain might we long, seek, pray, she was deaf to our 
entreaties; it seemed as though this were her final utter- 
ance, a warning and a menace. Then, in an attempt to con- 
strain her to modify her response, we had recourse to an- 
other creature of the same kingdom, but more potent, 
which is not content with questioning the body but can 
command it, a febrifuge of the same order as the modern 
aspirin, which had not then come into use. We had not 
shaken the thermometer down below 99.5, and hoped that 
it would not have to rise from there. We made my grand- 
mother swallow this drug and then replaced the ther- 


A410 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


friends with quinine, she may give me the order not to 
go up, once, ten times, twenty times. And then she will 
grow tired of telling me, I know her; get along with you. 
This won’t last for ever. And then you'll be a lot better 
off.” Thereupon my grandmother felt the presence within 
her of a creature which knew the human body better than 
herself, the presence of a contemporary of the races that 
have vanished from the earth, the presence of earth’s first 
inhabitant—long anterior to the creation of thinking man 
—she felt that aeonial ally who was sounding her, a little 
‘roughly even, in the head, the heart, the elbow; he found 
out the weak places, organized everything for the pre- 
historic combat which began at once to be fought. In a 
‘moment a trampled Python, the fever, was vanquished by 
‘the potent chemical substance to which my grandmother, 
‘across the series of kingdoms, reaching out beyond all 
‘animal and vegetable life, would fain have been able to 
igive thanks. res she He moved by this glimpse 
‘which she had caught, through the mists of so many 
‘centuries, of a climate anterior to the creation even of 
plants. Meanwhile the thermometer, like a Weird Sister 
‘momentarily vanquished by some more ancient god, held 
motionless her silver spindle. Alas! other inferior 
‘creatures which man has trained to the chase of the 
‘mysterious quarry which he cannot pursue within the 
‘pathless forest of himself, reported cruelly to us every 
day a certain quantity of albumen, not large, but constant 
enough for it also to appear to bear relation to some 
persistent malady which we could not detect. Bergotte 
had shocked that scrupulous instinct in me which made 
me subordinate my intellect when he spoke to me of 
Dr. du Boulbon as of a physician who would not bore 


AII 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


me, who would discover methods of treatment which, how- 
ever strange they might appear, would adapt themselves 
to the singularity of my mind. But ideas transform them- 
selves in us, they overcome the resistance with which we 
at first meet them, and feed upon rich intellectual reserves 
which we did not know to have been prepared for them. 
So, as happens whenever anything we have heard said 
about some one whom we do not know has had the 
faculty of awakening in us the idea of great talent, of a 
sort of genius, in my inmost mind I gave Dr. du Boulbon. 
the benefit of that unlimited confidence which he inspires: 
in us who with an eye more penetrating than other men’s 
perceives the truth. I knew indeed that he was more of 
a specialist in nervous diseases, the man to whom Charcot’ 
before his death had predicted that he would reign su- 
preme in neurology and psychiatry. “ Ah! I don’t know 
about that. It’s quite possible,” put in Francoise, who 
was in the room, and heard Charcot’s name, as she heard 
du Boulbon’s, for the first time. But this in no way pre- 
vented her from saying “ It’s possible.” Her “ possibles ”, 
her “perhapses”, her “I don’t knows” were peculiarly © 
irritating at such a moment. One wanted to say to her: 
“ Naturally you didn’t know, since you haven’t the faintest ' 
idea of what we are talking about, how can you even say 
whether it’s possible or not; you know nothing about it. 
Anyhow, you can’t Say now that you don’t know what 
Charcot said to du Boulbon. You do know because we 
have just told you, and your ‘ perhapses’ and ‘ possibles ’ 
don’t come in, because it’s a fact.” 

In spite of this more special competence in cerebral and 
nervous matters, as I knew that du Boulbon was a great 
physician, a superior man, of a profound and inventive 


412 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


atellect, I begged my mother to send for him, and the 
ope that, by a clear perception of the malady, he might 
verhaps cure it, carried the day finally over the fear that 
ve had of (if we called in a specialist) alarming my grand- 
nother. What decided my mother was the fact that, en- 
ouraged unconsciously by Cottard, my grandmother no 
onger went out of doors, and scarcely rose from her bed. 
m vain might she answer us in the words of Mme. de 
3évigné’s letter on Mme. de la Fayette: “ Everyone said 
she was mad not to wish to go out. I said to these persons, 
so headstrong in their judgment: ‘Mme. de la Fayette 
s not mad!’ and I stuck to that. It has taken her death 
o prove that she was quite right not to go out.” Du 
Boulbon when he came decided against—if not Mme. de 
Sévigné, whom we did not quote to him—my grand- 
mother, at any rate. Instead of sounding her chest, fixing 
on her steadily his wonderful eyes, in which there was 
perhaps the illusion that he was making a profound 
scrutiny of his patient, or the desire to give her that illu- 
sion, which seemed spontaneous but must be mechanically 
produced, or else not to let her see that he was thinking 
of something quite different, or simply to obtain the 
mastery over her, he began talking about Bergotte. 

“TJ should think so, indeed, he’s magnificent, you are 
quite right to admire him. But which of his books do you 
prefer? Indeed! Well, perhaps that is the best after all. 
‘In any case it is the best composed of his novels. Claire 
is quite charming in it; of his male characters which 
‘appeals to you most?” 

I supposed at first that he was making her talk like this 
‘about literature because he himself found medicine boring, 
perhaps also to display his breadth of mind and even, 


413 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


with a more therapeutic aim, to restore confidence to hi: 
patient, to shew her that he was not alarmed, to take he 
mind from the state of her health. But afterwards 


with a preliminary rubbing of his hands, which he seeme 
to have some difficulty in wiping dry of the final hesita- 
tions which he himself might feel and of all the objections 
which we might have raised, looking down at my grand- 
mother with a lucid eye, boldly and as though he were 
at last upon solid ground, punctuating his words in a 
quiet, impressive tone, every inflexion of which bore the 
mark of intellect, he began. (His voice, for that matter, 
throughout this visit remained what it naturally was, 
caressing, And under his bushy brows his ironical eyes 
were full of kindness.) 

“You will be quite well, Madame, on the day—when it 
comes, and it rests entirely with you whether it comes 
to-day—on which you realise that there is nothing wrong 
with you, and resume your ordinary life. You tell me that 
you have not been taking your food, not going out? ” 

“But, sir, I have a temperature.” 

He laid a finger on her wrist. 

“Not just now, at any rate. Besides, what an excuse! 
Don’t you know that we keep out in the open air and jj 
overfeed tuberculous patients with temperatures of 102?” J 

“ But I have a little albumen as well.” 


414 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


“You ought not to know anything about that. You 
aave what I have had occasion to call ‘ mental albumen’. 
We have all of us had, when we have not been very well, 
ittle albuminous phases which our doctor has done his 
yest to make permanent by calling our attention to them. 
For one disorder that doctors cure with drugs (as I am 
‘old that they do occasionally succeed in doing) they 
sroduce a dozen others in healthy subjects by inoculating 
them with that pathogenic agent a thousand times more 
virulent than all the microbes in the world, the idea that 
gne is ill. A belief of that sort, which has a disturbing 
effect on any temperament, acts with special force on 
neurotic people. Tell them that a shut window is open 
behind their back, they will begin to sneeze; make them 
believe that you have put magnesia in their soup, they 
will be seized with colic; that their coffee is stronger than 
usual, they will mot sleep a wink all night. Do you 
imagine, Madame, that I needed to do any more than 
look into your eyes, listen to the way in which you 
express yourself, look, if I may say so, at this lady, 
your daughter, and at your grandson, who takes so much 
after you, to learn what was the matter with you!” 
“Your grandmother might perhaps go and sit, if the 
Doctor allows it, in some quiet path in the Champs- 
Elysées, near that laurel shrubbery where you used to 
play when you were little,” said my mother to me, thus 
indirectly consulting Dr. du Boulbon, her voice for that 
‘reason assuming a tone of timid deference which it would 
‘not have had if she had been addressing me alone. The 
‘Doctor turned to my grandmother and, being apparently 
‘as well-read in literature as in science, adjured her as 
follows: “Go to the Champs-Elysées, Madame, to the 


AIS 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


laurel shrubbery which your grandson loves. The laure 
you will find health-giving. It purifies. After he had ex. 
terminated the serpent Python, it was with a bough of 
laurel in his hand that Apollo made his entry into Delphi 
He sought thus to guard himself from the deadly germs 
of the venomous monster. So you see that the laurel is 
the most ancient, the most venerable and, I will add— 
what is of therapeutic as well as of prophylactic value— 
the most beautiful of antiseptics.” 

Inasmuch as a great part of what doctors know is taught 
them by the sick, they are easily led to believe that this 
knowledge which patients exhibit is common to them all, 
and they pride themselves on taking the patient of th 
moment by surprise with some remark picked up at a 
previous bedside. Thus it was with the superior smile 
of a Parisian who, in conversation with a peasant, might 
hope to surprise him by using suddenly a word of the 
local dialect that Dr. du Boulbon said to my grandmother: 
“ Probably a windy night will make you sleep when the 
strongest soporifics would have no effect.” “On the con- 
trary, Sir, when the wind blows I can never sleep at all.” 
But doctors are touchy people. “ Ach!” muttered du 
Boulbon, knitting his brows, as if some one had trodden 
on his toe, or as if my grandmother’s sleeplessness on 
stormy nights were a personal insult to himself. He had 
not, however, an undue opinion of himself, and since, 
in his character as a “ Superior” person, he felt himself 
bound not to put any faith in medicine, he quickly re- 
covered his philosophic serenity. 

My mother, in her passionate longing for reassurance 
from Bergotte’s friend, added in support of his verdict 
that a first cousin of my grandmother, who suffered from 


416 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


“nervous complaint, had lain for seven years cloistered 
a her bedroom at Combray, without leaving her bed more 
han once or twice a week. 

“You see, Madame, I didn’t know that, and yet I 
ould have told you.” 

“But, Sir, I am not in the least like her; on the con- 
rary, my doctor complains that he cannot get me to 
tay in bed,” said my grandmother, whether because she 
vas a little annoyed by the doctor’s theories, or was 
inxious to submit to him any objections that might be 
‘aised to them, in the hope that he would refute these 
ind that, after he had gone, she would no longer find 
iny doubt lurking in her own mind as to the accuracy 
of his encouraging diagnosis. 

“Why, naturally, Madame, you cannot have all the 
jorms of—if you'll excuse my saying so—mania at once; 
you have others, but not that particular one. Yesterday 
[ visited a home for neurasthenics. In the garden, I saw 
a man standing on a seat, motionless as a fakir, his neck 
dent in a position which must have been highly uncom- 
fortable. On my asking him what he was doing there, 
he replied, without turning his head, or moving a muscle: 
‘You see, Doctor, I am extremely rheumatic and catch 
cold very easily; I have just been taking a lot of exercise, 
and while I was getting hot, like a fool, my neck was 
touching my flannels. If I move it away from my flannels 
now before letting myself cool down, I am certain to get 
a stiff neck, and possibly bronchitis.’ Which he would, in 
fact, have done. ‘ You’re a fine specimen of neurasthenia, 
that’s what you are,’ I told him. And do you know what 
argument he advanced to prove that I was mistaken? 
It was this; that while all the other patients in the place 


I 417 AA 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


had a mania for testing their weight, so much so that the 
weighing machine had to be padlocked so that they should 
not spend the whole day on it, he had to be lifted on te 
it bodily, so little did he care to be weighed. He prided 
himself on not sharing the mania of the others without 
thinking that he had also one of his own, and that it was 
this which saved him from the other. You must not b 
offended by the comparison, Madame, for the man wh 
' dared not turn his neck for fear of catching a chill is th 
| greatest poet of our day. That poor maniac is the mos 
lofty intellect that I know. Submit to being called 

neurotic. You belong to that splendid and pitiable famil 
which is the salt of the earth. All the greatest things wel 
know have come to us from neurotics. It is they and they 
only who have founded religions and created great work 
_ of art. Never will the world be conscious of how mucht 
It owes to them, nor above all of what they have suffered 
_ in order to bestow their gifts on it. We enjoy fine music, 
beautiful pictures, a thousand exquisite things, but wel 
do not know what they cost those who wrought them in 
sleeplessness, tears, spasmodic laughter, rashes, asthma, 
eplilepsy, a terror of death which is worse than any of 
these, and which you perhaps have felt, Madame,” he} 
added with a smile at my grandmother, “ for confess now,} 
when I came into the room, you were not feeling very con-] 
fident. You thought that you were ill; dangerously ill,} 
perhaps. Heaven only knows what the disease was ofh 
which you thought you had detected the symptoms. And 
you were not mistaken; they were there. Neurosis hash 
an absolute genius for malingering. There is no illness 
which it cannot counterfeit perfectly. It will produce life- 
like imitations of the dilatations of dyspepsia, the sick- 


418 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


nesses “of pregnancy, the broken rhythm of the cardiac, 
he feverishness of the consumptive. If it is capable of 
jeceiving the doctor, how should it fail to deceive the 
patient? No, no; you mustn’t think I’m making fun of 
your sufferings. I should not undertake to heal them 
inless I understood them thoroughly. And, well, they say 
shere’s no good confession unless it’s mutual. I have told 
you that without nervous trouble there can be no great 
artist. What is more,” he added, raising a solemn fore- 
finger, “there can be no great scientist either. I will 
go farther, and say that, unless he himself is subject to 
nervous trouble, he is not, I won’t say a good doctor, but 
I do say the right doctor to treat nervous troubles. In 
nervous pathology a doctor who doesn’t say too many 
foolish things is a patient half-cured, just as a critic is 
a poet who has stopped writing verse and a policeman 
a burglar who has retired from practice. I, Madame, I do 
not, like you, fancy myself to be suffering from album- 
inuria, I have not your nervous fear of food, nor of 
fresh air, but I can never go to sleep without getting 
out of bed at least twenty times to see if my door is shut. 
And in that home where I found the poet yesterday who 
would not move his neck, I had gone to secure a room, 
for—this is between ourselves—I spend my holidays there 
looking after myself when I have increased my own 
trouble by wearing myself out in the attempt to cure 
‘other people.” 

“But do you want me to take a cure like that, Sir?” 
‘came in a frightened voice from my grandmother. 

“Tt is not necessary, Madame. The symptoms which 
‘you describe will vanish at my bidding. Besides, you have 
‘with you a very efficient person whom I appoint as your 


419 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


doctor from now onwards. That is your trouble itself, 
the super-activity of your nerves. Even if I knew how tc 
cure you of that, I should take good care not to. All 
I need do is to control it. I see on your table there one 
of Bergotte’s books. Cured of your neurosis you woul 
no longer care for it. Well, I might feel it my duty to 
substitute for the joys that it procures for you a nervou 
stability which would be quite incapable of giving yo 
those joys. But those joys themselves are a strong remedy; 
the strongest of all perhaps. No; I have nothing to say. 
against your nervous energy. All I ask is that it should 
listen to me; I leave you in its charge. It must reverse 
its engines. The force which it is now using to prevent 
you from getting up, from taking sufficient food, let it 
employ in making you eat, in making you read, in making 
you go out, and in distracting you in every possible way, 
You needn’t tell me that you are fatigued. Fatigue is the 
organic realisation of a preconceived idea. Begin by not 
thinking it. And if ever you have a slight indisposition,. 
which is a thing that may happen to anyone, it will be just 
as if you hadn’t it, for your nervous energy will have 
endowed you with what M. de Talleyrand, in an expres-} 
sion full of meaning, called ‘imaginary health ’. See, it 
has begun to cure you already, you have been sitting up 
in bed listening to me without once leaning back on your 
pillows; your eye is bright, your complexion is good, I 
have been talking to you for half an hour by the clock and } 
you have never noticed the time. Well, Madame, I shall 
now bid you good-day.” 

When, after seeing Dr. du Boulbon to the door, I re-} 
turned to the room in which my mother was by herself, 
the oppression that had been weighing on me for the 


420 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


ast few weeks lifted, I felt that my mother was going 
‘o break out with a cry of joy and would see my J°Y, 
felt that inability to endure the suspense of the coming 
noment at which a person is going to be overcome with 
‘motion in our presence, which in another category is a 
ittle like the thrill of fear that goes through one when 
me knows that somebody is going to come in and startle 
one by a door that is still closed; I tried to speak to 
Mamma but my voice broke, and, bursting into tears, I 
stayed for a long time, my head on her shoulder, crying, 
‘asting, accepting, relishing my grief, now that I knew 
shat it had departed from my life, as we like to exalt 
surselves by forming virtuous plans which circumstances 
do not permit us to put into execution. Francoise annoyed 
me by her refusal to share in our joy. She was quite over- 
come because there had just been a terrible scene between 
the lovesick footman and the tale-bearing porter. It had 
tequired the Duchess herself, in her unfailing benevolence, 
to intervene, restore an apparent calm to the household 
and forgive the footman. For she was a good mistress, 
and that would have been the ideal “ place” if only she 
didn’t listen to “stories ”’. 

During the last few days people had begun to hear of 
my grandmother’s illness and to inquire for news of her. 
Saint-Loup had written to me: “I do not wish to take 
advantage of a time when your dear grandmother is 
unwell to convey to you what is far more than mere 
reproaches, on a matter with which she has no concern. 
But I should not be speaking the truth were I to say to 
you, even out of politeness, that I shall ever forget the 
perfidy of your conduct, or that there can ever be any 
forgiveness for so scoundrelly a betrayal.” But some other 


421 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


friends, supposing that my grandmother was not serious] 
ill (they may not even have known that she was jl] at all 
had asked me to meet them next day in the Champs 
Elysées, to go with them from there to pay a call togethe; 
ending up with a dinner in the country, the thought ¢f 
which appealed to me, I had no longer any reason to foreg 
these two pleasures. When my grandmother had bee 
told that it was now imperative, if she was to obey Dr 
du Boulbon’s orders, that she should go out as much a 
possible, she had herself at once suggested the Champs] 
Elysées. It would be easy for me to escort her there 
and, while she sat reading, to arrange with my friend; 
where I should meet them later; and I should still be iz 
time, if I made haste, to take the train with them te 
Ville d’Avray. When the time came, my grandmother dic 
not want to go out; she felt tired. But my mother, acting 
on du Boulbon’s instructions, had the strength of mind 


my grandmother was going to wear. Returning at that] 
moment from my morning walk I accompanied her intoj 
the shop. “ Is it your young master who brings you here,” 


422 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


Fupien asked Francoise, “ is it you who are bringing him 
fo see me, or is it some good wind and fortune that 
wing you both?” For all his want of education, Jupien 
espected the laws of grammar as instinctively as M. de 
Juermantes, in spite of every effort, broke them. With 
I’rancoise gone and the cloak mended, it was time for 
ay grandmother to get ready. Having obstinately refused 
o let Mamma stay in the room with her, she took, left 
jo herself, an endless time over her dressing, and now 
hat I knew her to be quite well, with that strange indif- 
erence which we feel towards our relatives so long as 
hey are alive, which makes us put everyone else before 
hem, I felt it to be very selfish of her to take so long, 
o risk making me late when she knew that I had an 
ppointment with my friends and was dining at Ville 
VAvray. In my impatience I finally went downstairs 
[vithout waiting for her, after I had twice been told that 
he was just ready. At last she joined me, without apol- 
ygising to me, as she generally did, for having kept me 
jvaiting, flushed and bothered like a person who has come 
o a place in a hurry and has forgotten half her belong- 
ngs, just as I was reaching the half-opened glass door 
which, without warming them with it in the least, let 
n the liquid, throbbing, tepid air from the street (as 
though the sluices of a reservoir had been opened) be- 
ween the frigid walls of the passage. 

“Oh, dear, if you’re going to meet your friends I 
dught to have put on another cloak. I look rather poverty- 
itricken in this one.” 

_ I was startled to see her so flushed, and supposed that 
laving begun by making herself late she had had to hurry 
bver her dressing. When we left the cab at the end of 


423 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


the Avenue Gabriel, in the Champs-Elysées, I saw my 
grandmother, without a word to me, turn aside and mak, 
her way to the little old pavilion with its green trellis 
at the door of which I had once waited for Francoise. Thi 
same park-keeper who had been standing there then wa; 
still talking to Frangoise’s “ Marquise” when, followin 
my grandmother who, doubtless because she was feeling 
sick, had her hand in front of her mouth, I climbed th 
steps of that little rustic theatre, erected there among thi 
gardens. At the entrance, as in those circus booths wher 
the clown, dressed for the ring and smothered in flour 
stands at the door and takes the money himself for the 
seats, the “ Marquise”, at the receipt of custom, was stil 
there in her place with her huge, uneven face smearec 
with a coarse plaster and her little bonnet of red flow. 
ers and black lace surmounting her auburn wig. But ] 
do not suppose that she recognised me. The park-keeper 
abandoning his watch over the greenery, with the coloui 
of which his uniform had been designed to harmonise 
was talking to her, on a chair by her side. 

“So you're still here?” he was saying. “ You don’ 
think of retiring?” 

“And what have I to retire for, Sir? Will you kindly 
tell me where I shall be better off than here, where 1 
should live more at my ease, and with every comfort! 
And then there’s all the coming and going, plenty of 
distraction; my little Paris, I call it; my customers keep 
me in touch with everything that’s going on. Just te 
give you an example, there’s one of them who went out 
not more than five minutes ago; he’s a magistrate, in 
the very highest position there is. Very well, Sir,” she 
cried with ardour, as though prepared to maintain the 


424. 


—_ 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


truth of this assertion by violence, should the agent of 
civic authority shew any sign of challenging its accuracy, 
“for the last eight years, do you follow me, every day 
God has made, regularly on the stroke of three he’s 
‘been here, always polite, never saying one word louder 
‘than another, never making any mess; and he stays 
half an hour and more to read his papers and do his 
little jobs. There was one day he didn’t come. I never 
‘noticed it at the time, but that evening, all of a sudden 
I said to myself: ‘Why, that gentleman never came to- 
_day; perhaps he’s dead!’ And that gave me a regular 
turn, you know, because, of course, I get quite fond of 
| people when they behave nicely. And so I was very 
glad when I saw him come in again next day, and I 
said to him, I did: ‘I hope there was nothing wrong 
| yesterday, Sir?’ Then he told me that it was his wife 
that had died, and he’d been so put out, poor gentleman, 
what with one thing and another, he hadn’t been able 
to come. He had that really sad look, you know, people 
have when they’ve been married five-and-twenty years, 
and then the parting, but he seemed pleased, all the same, 
to be back here. You could see that all his little habits 
had been quite upset. I did what I could to make him 
- feel at home. I said to him: ‘Y mustn’t let go of 
things, Sir. Just come here the same as before, it will 
be a little distraction for you in your sorrow.’” 

The “ Marquise” resumed a gentler tone, for she had 
observed that the guardian of groves and lawns was 
listening to her complacently and with no thought of con- 
tradiction, keeping harmlessly in its scabbard a sword 
_ which looked more like a horticultural implement or some 


symbol of a garden-god. 


425 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


“And besides,” she went on, “I choose my customers, 
I don’t let everyone into my little parlours, as I call them, 
And doesn’t the place just look like a parlour with all 
my flowers? Such friendly customers I have; there’s al- 
ways some one or other brings me a spray of nice lilac, 
or jessamine or roses; my favourite flowers, roses are.” 

The thought that we were perhaps despised by this 
lady because we never brought any sprays of lilac or fine 
roses to her bower made me redden, and in the hope of 
making a bodily escape—or of being condemned only by 
default—from an adverse judgment, I moved towards 
the exit. But it is not always in this world the people who 
brings us fine roses to whom we are most friendly, for the 
“ Marquise ”, thinking that I was bored, turned to me: 

“You wouldn’t like me to open a little place for you!” 

And, on my declining: 

“No? You’re sure you won’t?” she persisted, smiling. 
“Well, just as you please. You’re welcome to it, but I 
know quite well, not having to pay for a thing won’t make 
you want to do it if you don’t want to.” 

At this moment a Shabbily dressed woman hurried into 
the place who seemed to be feeling precisely the want in 
question. But she did not belong to the “ Marquise’s ” 
world, for the latter, with the ferocity of a snob, flung at 
her: 

“Pve nothing disengaged, Ma’am.” 

“Will they be long?” asked the poor lady, reddening 
beneath the yellow flowers in her hat. 

“Well, Ma’am, if you'll take my advice, you'll try 
somewhere else; you see, there are stil] these two gentle- 
men waiting, and I’ve only one closet; the others are out 
of order.” 


426 


THE GUERMANTES WAY 


“Not much money there,” she explained when the other 
had gone. “ It’s not the sort we want here, either; they’re 
not clean, don’t treat the place with respect, it would be 
your humble here that would have to spend the next 
hour cleaning up after her ladyship. ’m not sorry to lose 
her penny.” 

Finally my grandmother emerged, and feeling that she 
probably would not seek to atone by a lavish gratuity 
for the indiscretion that she had shewn by remaining 
so long inside, I beat a retreat, so as not to have to share 
in the scorn which the “ Marquise”? would no doubt heap 
on her, and began strolling along a path, but slowly, so 
that my grandmother should not have to hurry to over- 
take me; as presently she did. I expected her to begin: 
“Tam afraid I’ve kept you waiting; I hope you'll still 
be in time for your friends,” but she did not utter a single 
word, so much so that, feeling a little hurt, I was dis- 
inclined to speak first; until looking up at her I noticed 
that as she walked beside me she kept her face turned 
the other way. I was afraid that her heart might be 
troubling her again. I studied her more carefully and 
was struck by the disjointedness of her gait. Her hat was 
crooked, her cloak stained; she had the confused and 
worried look, the flushed, slightly dazed face of a person 
who has just been knocked down by a carriage or pulled 
out of a ditch. 

“TI was afraid you were feeling sick, Grandmamma; 
are you feeling better now?” I asked her. 

Probably she thought that it would be impossible for 
her, without alarming me, not to make some answer. 

“T heard the whole of her conversation with the 
keeper,” she told me. “Could anything have been more 


427 


REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST 


typical of the Guermantes, or the Verdurins and their 
little circle? Heavens, what fine language she put it all 
in!” And she quoted, ‘with deliberate application, this 
sentence from her own special Marquise, Mme. de 
Sevigné: “As I listened to them I thought that they were 
preparing for me the pleasures of a farewell.” 

Such was the speech that she made me, a speech into 
which she had put all her critical delicacy, her love of 
quotations, her memory of the classics, more thoroughly 
even than she would naturally have done, and as though 
to prove that she retained possession of all these faculties. 
But I guessed rather than heard what she said, so in- 
audible was the voice in which she muttered her sentences, 
clenching her teeth more than could be accounted for by 
the fear of being sick again. 

“Come!” I said lightly, so as not to seem to be 
taking her illness too seriously, “since your heart is 
bothering you, shall we go home now? I don’t want 
to trundle a grandmother with indigestion about the 
Champs-Elysées.” 

“TI didn’t like to suggest it, because of your friends,” 
she replied. “ Poor boy! But if you don’t mind, I think 
it would be wiser.” 

I was afraid of her noticing the strange way in which 
she uttered these words. 

“Come!” I said to her sharply, “you mustn’t tire 
yourself talking; if your heart is bad, it’s silly; wait till 
we get home.” 

She smiled at me sorrowfully and gripped my hand. 
She had realised that there was no need to hide from me 
what I had at once guessed, that she had had a slight 
stroke. 


428 


A ol, pwd st OSPR oe lM het bateek pa 


vette Rae, vee e 0 ere ee ee Oe ye 


ame EFS RSS Ove and, 


\ 4 
‘eae Ueda wires Phew’ Aehetiets BEE a bg ROOD E Geb OL eh. Gael bates Be drt Lin he ROOM ATE Efedre tied popeb bet ale ep E> nef ed karen ene dy iy re Peer cia: 
sei yd nie am HP REIN Rh EL MEU Rh GONE Ker ene HOH? He EMH Me ghine Mh pepe Hi Glaieliad Lbs mNObE Heat Hye b5, PERU WEE SP .cycpamblnre nied is 
nf “te ehvm ish i oD rie HEU eti rR: ir agi oH el eerles pepe swefing meen a Hon letiegt yor cata tere Pre pe ks ‘ eb 
either Lokbaws pate ta athens ot Pte hab ce PE MEM He wdotietpeibeue{ ot crt gotiapon ante Sea hai 


ork tN eae 


Oli bohey reverie Tessas LUA ploce eke a ie 
ie bah ot he ¢ REE 9) wee ogo 
Ht eiprhete de doles (Per 


Be becttetee é ptr 
hetpentedet eer ies 

if pocpeireheyes (ph eine r 

ie Gitte heh Ht Hethpbiors eda Oe eee ae 

HHO B fer ede y ve - 

4 eee Hepes hed 

ae 606 BLE OY 


BWOLe he, ite riae aie ah: 
hed hededene co eae) hehe spepeaingege terete perry 5 s 4 + 


das tit wi UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBAN 
Ob deus é 1 ne - Oe ed oe 


tan 
She * AER HeReter As iearge FER Ve * rey nae a + 
! ridsgtates regen etalunson srotichearuoue ie acticl oie Fomekivn tered on 
Mr efaien Aa ee arate 798 = _ ma pads he 
‘h oa Thy rhs taeh stra bein aren Ts oe 
* ray spon euaiely: a geome Sadie ed ieee nen i th ; pe ryt ted i" 4 
eer sa 
ail Stee BUR Rats CORR eee M 7 
shraet-f vate Weill Os oepenap ce Seer sts f : : 4 
create rant 2 Ys oat oy pate Airiwirhesdh once ee Ab ged a siete pen <berivey «rie 
siarennren eer ror Uae ps , ON edie Let fd Le re OLs> 14% ol ei a ‘ : ~ ay 
rh ow Bier be mide oti eth lhe ih ash, SRA ihe stbe bceboass 
Lee roaienled perk t Bose rf Adeipe ti eth} apr nee baer 
9 * ; u ‘ " Phone oy then 
i Hab ; ey ernente 
a : ; 30112 0 Coebtes 
= barre vedays tee inte 7 83235827 Pare te syeditger wi ay} 
fone mn Y rar rivaudeng oe ay cae 


Leeder reAbie bhonr wrt eeovey 


dpesbr ghee seh Ble» rd eiabaidhigeh ie tar ateon ga irre pewer ' 
uF dot WC Ube 8 « wb re Oh Ler ipaey: PEN yew he atten . . 4 powela™ Bho tet 
Sh Re i" + the dy te ele feel be tet epi otrann css (hie 2 ¢ boas bbs Gi Ageetin Gin pe ENED: 11 1H Re. He tie erry ioe shbiisin pur ‘ m nein ot aitesd 
Hipp yey curt en re Erecbononear BEDE [epee iye repo letipeibe Wi heprae Be Undo ee ies ped Supe yee ah yey yen, Obes pene earns 
es ira AY ‘pearges FAP ease teri dmieminitis ntsi-br Piiehelelie Hh Mediehea new Or iytede ls yy. eran. Veh fll ¢ 
perenir ied byrdel io ets We gePE tie tr) Sea SH: plate ser droeke er Prd eed rrenets 
aedebetthnwrmicte rs Bf pb Sheehan as ogaeg ewe § Save fete ae v1 t rey yee arenes tar Sip g : Ge aehiady : 46 ’ “4 h 
Pepier cacmedr doy Febk doreli NEU i eve Mepalts ariel <oria gos rs 4 a dehyust ( ryt oni fake 
oth serie tet ied ie het ig legid Nie th ee WH capeny ” SRE 5 how pea oO Lem hh oot DPF) PHN A ay BigwEN> le pba nape 4” fet ope hb e+) myery'y 
é Eta 6 Sribe dee ye ae Ae hiye Hee HAD eM eOeth Oey Pye Remtpei ct ieua wert OF EF Pe gy yma ogee OT +H) em apie eas 


Sele b ne Ge tire revs evecen trend ort ye elke eee 

bedevil ene faci Rs Fete Rm bir mrems Bie ray 9 Ml Gaye OF epi teped is dete 

rai Syren AAR, Wepre § 4 Heme) Sd EE PPE OY Lie phe Uhea he Ibis i at 
+ Hs bed 


Nendo pret A EMBD emer py Daath od aeeiee tile tt eel oe Te oe Ui opin hone h as 


jeri 


Phe DEED fend RYT Helle PBL ey Lge SOPH Bs genet ene ford 
ie) Dh Oho erie thi gh Gi eer ws curt! he 

SP HOH HH Bg BLL Mie He” 
HOA Hes 


ai ROHN Ph] eb yet 8 Oty biped or teclory tity pag Owed eo Oh tea eye 
ies tepenedtte UMS PNA ES S ad Haba pas a el) dl iesirtes tebe ie eal tor 
alti a re sir, Hothot ion) oprape (brdee wee ; wei ibe is Ac tie gould ‘ire 2% nen 
phat sot age Heh mpbele the ROH « ir fens” visi sehen WC HP tradi off A biemete wearhe oehaee Eie 
HEHE HEBER beret our! 4 iS f ‘ 


elie Welbey eve ae), 
teen glee wel's 
earapi sity bavhe 


i 
ar ‘ VY UbPBinc hes se pa b 
ori at t f ¢ rym + i se 77 PAN he thelie Livre Tempetcad . 
wit PORE feeogamcetge gp wher © epretaatieh cet be eves, oaiy iad rey 
ANP bN de hE Tete apn fhe ‘ t om WAVE eh win HbR E Tet i iy ddan) him eee Eade Bag hain 8A Meee je 
peep EME ets fhely i ' be bf Gorrie kp Pe aaa Sareea wr wor vrat ban 
MigeaeneuanencaTanie ae p bhi des . free fPe eh enpiys both tthe SEE ie oe baiolle vege nape lbh at HEM C( etgr" ” 
erica Beast Mitt okay Hie yep ed es ‘ w (ted. pele Pe ¥e: fF 8 ATP OMS GSE nthe Pri fe f eyes ht 
bese dyrie ued eshar ds 09 418 By Haepabanpe(h mit wn Bide pie SA PAbCANE AEP UMS ICED OR Eek diet DeeM egebnt, Wee DEE TER bh hOUEE DY MRE WS ium ANC fo ise jib Ol bet 
BURL WO Brae be grdleir t= iol yet the pipet fara ny ereirie I 3 i bend Pe OGEL Li 40 he edi ed bs i 


Sahihesie He Mbewe be hpe herrea $e Mee Pib tin keh 
Hp ase dp (benre thong OA Abe PISO HOP at 6 rary es Pete die Oe i eee nae ee 
Popebis Peiedye bettered wns, pemed pc gitiipe jaetleyy Pooar-4ie Sey othe prenerrr 
he ie * 


4 she tit eda He OH Nets breyani ps ibaa tent Wettey wade bir exeniey 


Sy fta Pepin Ne pehiecbA de aed eyeball f pier 
ai: Ave iors cmaia wot ai ebb ED arr: be gat gud) 
Ae es ee oe be ee ed * 
1% Fup Dabipes Leheiisbebenrararte ned ciie mie Herc hereonees 


ey rie roy Moet he + meet + PO Lerlene eu 
Sheek A lastimiieietielcoe@ubeien Pil biedionsitbeirin & peastent ne Remenonis heat acre saat ea i a 
eat actin pecere ee 24) Bie Rhoden sappy tian ‘ 1a Siete o PhP odMAON Oh Nogragk PLT A 16 95 Agr CF ; aa , 
pis Se ed ieee ee StF thchebens ( pe ML SOe Mebee ape hea). oo He etheQ eee Ore ebr Pi neje 
seipeh Gene pceeetatabhe Merah doin dary fH Py i 
ada eaten 2 > fiche Che Babess hese SOS EHe hire son ines ‘ am 
PTS erne we f + fied tiene ed aad fy ; yr 
Oey tot at pt fey “hae doe Pnpety at gbrrje PED ob byron itn dag heme ia Pdr Ri, Liceukice Pryee a anton’ rn r he 
lon Save iar- frais 4 -Galremet rh il11-teamaety +t (7 ol. Ht OF baw ued! besa pas who fours 
dened bchtees sivee Acacsieh bsieiedsopibt reese ae a NE etn Wr Vienpelialy:f BP Hebe yet irtic pip wih >isathe pet hehe Lam) NE Hye . at mh be hye 
ie Li ratonas egobrednetesh + Peite\ s/Pek Uisshe bs googe i woke HEIN Het > PR De (NAL emeD > peek airy 
betel posi. ered Wied ehh due Dit ennag Ret wha Ney at ' " 
bie HEG> sons “ Ph abe 
fe nin Held ie shelton Wee Ged topo hae o 
. Le edly gap ’ 04 a aon + eye yee 
nase tiie ig ver yenih cad Ree ANCOR HEL He poke Ori Les 
veh feds stnbe hie (Serve pehin es ng +s As 
is ry tis t TOBE RZ Hone hae yemeditw! OM Brapc ne 7] > a 
Re {hpi ee, oriediibeigeh ote! / 13 Weal oiiete Hebe Detriked) heer Wee 


Le Puen bal wt blued aie basket kei ed } ; “ 0 Hi neme yee oy ie epimers pry 


en WML FUE BP hve dems: ; y eelpahbrlta 4) Gosicioeivs heh ee yoive | nly. ford gi? : 
ee, isobcheat liadesiohes ; wipe Bi sre rien f ‘i id fears soenelir Si 
pent ue nuns hie 5 i a (hod upichs ‘ ‘ rr ar on wy wpm : 
i igus rem inal Nerd aie wt Laghepee ik now th, mo hd 
ne agree fs phvek be eapeh WS) whomegeds ene y per hein’ al ald ett La Vaed ’ 
Pet Taste ated) aoe ian es + Ab Hats pe tea yee te! th epaled PE HMI 6 RM eed Fe Te ena ea . ) 
al par) cirsetiodtey ba bes ois Gl ietie ge ye Ae baad! bah rine edn p ayy to geampmise Uk eg eh MBP wilewbene peepee ‘ ” » 
pre ee aes in jeden, Bei OH ipebpelteh fet sa pouapouny Lani mireatins RA led be Mo Bage fee obeipmgep sth ter eden abberiet Ae by bibegbe yresh ht ad pre pe nayie tye ‘ 
re Hy BAPE IE ob dials} |b SIONS OE WENT CPA Me ye ols yee tote beni reagent PLM LY fre eprter ix ew ne na) whee we by » 
se fell gig ny Mrediinasegsti epi Ab 15 (safe ibedpeet pad poly rey #8 Ce a Paneer wet no Recipey 4 ses: eawehd @eirey ie 
ph a: : De at Be ke eh LORE Rt eto te sOvibeosh nike OEP ALI Mbi. Meite F pet - aitd . ai 
2 hp wm inate: MST oncg he pepe Ne ivege: hema he 6 Mp Oya we pie 
Roth dpa ae lo Meret ark he di wey patents oSub + ee ; ’ ‘ 
Med 44 els ing by pote HOR RH -PE # r Pree et 
al ateea 5 ( Pee rb pet gee ead Me somenh fee a 
bpede pats . f dept heed allay SPER #5 A BE arbi ph Pomel Cah fri Pe i ghd beds 9: yeghad £ joe 
sets hove efirdelps cebebise ial soe pep rn ay ger hed hap henge . * é Lonash hep ‘ rs a . ns 
Heer be Seneioietes 2 VB iandicay Hhervamprrd ce ti ath. (tore BC” fe dy ay ¢ © ¥ ‘ 
epee let afin wtieg ohecnetieileted ot), Hate poh eplitn OE fy oh 
a ee i et ean WP 


Lp HINGE Hb es) Hetei) pedy 
ienears bn ge seh EF Rigen |: Of) a Sighs 


Daren Arhureagl ; ‘ 43 hy 4 ‘ nui iNarpaun pein 4 ray error net ies rw 
sc buetpa rae hiedvee aecanehenspa visa} Ayiogit tin eave: ipo ube hy RAG Redehcase hte oor 
tet ty pba Arbre eed.» $79} ye Hl Re DF ads ‘pe beter uthe¥ ‘ey Bhaw. ye 
naheedtaehs ie oe q FEhone) ahah Bh iged 1A +4 
hemedeien urs Baie) oe Satori Web) obep ef Westies oy wire Ws 
readied Mabtant cota “FYE tics ea eHete Pe se Hepeiirtbeteiss pies. Ay 
: retye, i Oi gn < hehe *f ia ft pyame - 
tee o bball vet pepe ih iy reeled ‘his vr ety PORT ata n | eee ol 4 ’ 
cre ln AEP ARE « hari Shormbeiyes Geant ib ChibAVe etbebsy rb yoo Na eueh Pe. chute hip ater ne i eknaiaresbe ant EMER. hat iets MPA fihhepedousied et abe ge e ri eet be. 
Wate seri as gc i hi Yeir eI! NED wn sb Male ee pty a ere ya ae ipenoiy: BWM Lela MDE NWE AVE Parte eb Ahem WOU FM MameMe at (3 CFSE Apc Re Hye fag fy Bie he belie Goings fl 
oe paaaee pitelideed ” actatats ME apeds LONE HP MEM TREL rhe six dye yo eo wis fig dye fk aghi bo abe imesh ove Anteg(aAv bed Hon el aeanc ga L Aertel jel) yen 
¢ tae aed >t 8h Wie » Slade bec is oie Hine HONE I Heed RIE OS Fr EME He peiven rt PEC ON Bee eels ied jean ae 
ase es tents Yee eta rem az): yeh ney Sabre Des hwbe dc ntyregey feap? ph ME MPC bi had, Aprboy Pe Tic gyeebried ha Saheb Ale be ph ts ihe ph ytd 4 Fe prepay + Beir bene 
lysed ei ena ar Ben elle weber fini Hei be Bobo mmebet Amat me dediontep eiarl beech ibe deedp ory -AMMeiblit awh #is) eimd (gras ao h whe ige He MA die ‘s ‘ari 
i eto nt i oie fens, gaysed (RFE He posts A: 4 A tsomitry win St hada far et paul te ereerrarenricn tet io fearier) Tes! soe ee aero ‘ y Pr 
: AACA AeAe lait veesmet tun Met ates APU fe che oh weg me Te tak Mee Pett Wie wdisala ie oie dant 
i ‘det PIs atieie alee ahce LAA te etree nee a aa) PE PON WN 7050) MBohettol >) (HbMe peiebe 
He lott cd baghtteete BHM iedie} * PES lie RIB AER Mlhamhhb (Yee fa Hedy robe eed Uie Be BRT IP pehet GeKey 
Heh Hepp dens’) 6 eum mite iaeecen yeth Med & Pes PEPE Ape riegy MUTT AM reh a ye Dog | . 
We EEE | Geeky SdOPL ile hee raep bed forty e Aegon bo 
: kAbe pied ¢ she hierar wits wie yc 6 : 
theietie é 4) eGo ir Hb ee 
La pew + 
tery af oe - 
Here Wroah sy “4 
£ io : ie wag ¥ 
" arte 490 Gs fh : pied chit) “em oapante hep , 
rissa ri y Asta petiie i rifts : ; PAO wr (ede ewes obo hehedrest ones sips neibetiethi ph iret vrei= 
ba stots rate i yatow k airtes CHF ALO ty MOY nl whe rel Hite LOL: gies. gly Wipe babyy eege dag ty Me 
¥ wth. Bm PE Hep teh fhe doe we hse dhe ied et Che meant’ (4 re bs ei wr hol Mend : ete 4e Pen dee eniemies 
3 wobeg im fied Baty ees ahesebnd won Jr f Bin LS ete A Rif eda Geet Pre of ent er HAO CaRA ANETTA tet 
tear $y ys Uhaor ceed a re Pity Peas i gerne (aint Tet it at en ot ee) ee 
» EEG wih Pio by DEO io pen eum nes YEP hee deteet $ 4 
beet - Si ely fhe Ra Svm sii th4 ee wh oud: fy Fmmais tee ” 
evialie geste eg bye ’ . 
etl “ ’ 
” : en) 
i ’ iene 
terri ly eter > Keen iariene Bhine im) + Ui ORR a iy etek thy en! é &y mi 
el aertinaey peel bie og) Sie Goebel ra Le ews Wott. re-biwlip tes byt Gevkye hatin nd | iv 
aPbitt Hedi enh lee eM lew joer Bie doe iad ey y 
Tide, ne sues Heer L/h oh my {epee ~ vA r : 
Jo Cereb Oye ho AMR eS os hinds or oy “4 cs tee oe ie SS ee le ep +f) Hei oy mon Wo " 
Fis Behe oe Meath ogee maalinenna se /frirere mir" gia , ins ve 
pia ed ner ‘ . oe n Webhedie ch pared) eat veslee aod * , ’ 
: HES pein Gems * i Hy oode ety 
Berge kis > fhe gasin Weibbeheme Mol oh 
4b Lo dm ‘ ft ¥ ‘ 
Om dyrh - bmyen ROW Made Nef = 
4nd) jatnme med at " A (-tieds 
ot ati rs rtd & n> pO: eet Yrrabe git de” Hela ad. tr ' 
eir> abe fhe GD ‘ 4 are 
» errr) mee fe 4 a et ; 
ngs rene » ; " obbe dete Se ncds cee : oo Te ole oe 
vi iit newer ei Raheny ye mm ' et pape » WA ‘ * 


locks ty) fee Lee * whe 
Ve Pop erediegt » 


eesiien hate! 


to det Ae lpm | sn ty Ph aye Hye we 

eb pot cmd hogtied “ewe ’ 

U Hy Fe BEN ghey. He het he 4 9hets) «4 
a Ser eterrin) breed ae) at ea tying 0 ° 


ates 4 afro a 


hy ively sed net yy pei} (ete SAMO RAP abe | pede d eben ti miyete be! 


sitet py Petites Hehe Syed G48? Fe eel sphibibe die e eb aot " sowey 
ery ye oom 0H Phare Hw chen, F plawr hebetrs Oise the ‘af 7 Heh F $A jetet 
“ Ss < ge ee ie rbe iw re AM Oe he adios 
is rn t wie whe HOME EL 
Ve bbady: deft delet ie “ + heme 
° t bes satan sey ile {* AB) + 4 ty 
bis hehe neten & afe Dob PROV wiped 1b gle Gerfra lh isrdge ed) err! or pri ao 


stat Hhcah: OSM gee Lewitt fale het Helot diven per Hetiegets Ly (hwite Hye Be Sep Hide eda hin 48 Glowitn [ye aes deed 
Ue nate hi in Heddy dewey Deedee edi Red oki egea\nipe 
ihn De et) Pee GEG eH dyed, 4) bobs the hel wegheabe us dois é hie Mi Gry ere brege 

hin regsry MeL pe Keplsete dee oy ? ware Ap cget ibersgery® Reh 1% Wal Ah Aegga tle hide WOAOR chedyt Bo tpegs dvb tie 
Desai aia! peardeet ot Ne bam Sean Haw Hh Pry She Hy ile fat Ape ALS bis HOB MAE leds Bnd mga cet etal Ceemede hg er ernie i) 
Piauet euataees bop fom he Pepe i each tte Le cok eae TATE an id tie HSE a UAE Len hh 0 fs Ket 4 
path rngianee Hawn BEANE Whe 8 on i «} eter Be eWrewr ge BH fhe bl Hn gleeetad ules here 
es edi bear sbagenye bets tem the: ah myn ter) fe Ie phe t re 
Braces agra yaar , Aevesewenedsints «can-htiy As BIE heist lAlieliab bfiedine pep =e 


riety’ nite dee yueye we rite) veer 


HOw AY wa lly 
Jl ped, ity heye sien) 
yidh geinppide dey 

Dans f iets 


